


Sophomores

by Lapifors



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, An Abundance of Andersons, Arguing, Blaine has high standards, Chatting & Messaging, College kids are dicks, Comedy of Errors, Eliticism, Epistolary, Gratuitous usage of last names, M/M, POV Multiple, Rival Relationship, Rivalry, Slow Build, Texting, other characters who must not be named for spoiler purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 56,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapifors/pseuds/Lapifors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sticky note, a case of mistaken identity, and a poetry assignment has Michael Chang Jr., ace Lit student, and Blaine Anderson, even better (arguable) ace Lit student, under each others' skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BikeChanderson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BikeChanderson/gifts).



The elegant curve of those shoulders reminded him of the fancy-looking curly brackets, in how they looked like, in how they caught his eye and held his gaze. The proper term for them were braces as he was taught in math, but those undecipherable numbers and equations were too mind-bogglingly awful; he didn’t want to associate them with that. Instead he thought of them in the songbooks, accolades, he remembered. What with the bow connecting the treble and bass, joining two separate voices together to make music. It sounded good, he thought. Most importantly, it sounded _right._ The point of his pencil dragged across electric yellow paper, in its footprints a scrawled accolade.

 

* * *

{ This was a comedy of errors in five arrangements.

 

Professor Ashbury took the small scraper from the bottom of the third drawer and handed it to the scowling boy who reluctantly marched towards the long rows of desks. She smirked and fixed her glasses to return grading her students' poetry analyses and liberally handed out C's to anyone who started his or her essay with "The poem I analyzed was..." Her red pen stabbed through uncouth armies of improper grammar and spelling mistakes, once traveling upwards to circle the empty space on the top of a report where a name should have been. Atrocious. This was supposed to be a college sophomore lit class, not middle school English. The boy groaning off to the side disproved her claim and Ashbury bent up her creaky neck and chuckled mirthfully.

"Professor, there are literally hundreds of desks here." The boy complained, his arm moving back and forth underneath a desk. The scraper made a sawing sound until something plopped into a bucket.

"And each one has at least two or three chewed up pink stragglers acting barnacle, Mr. Puckerman. The way I remember it, I was certain you needed extra credit for this semester?"

"Professor, come on now. You can call me Puck." Puck called out, popping his head up after getting another wad of hardened pinkish gum to drop into a bucket. He then grinned broadly and waggling his brows, he drawled, "Say, did you do anything to your hair because you look absolutely—"

"Save it, Mr. Puckerman. I already am enlightened about Professor Wood's voluntary discharge from the faculty." Ashbury chose to ignore Puck's loud chortle. "Not to mention, I am a widower with innumerable years ahead of you."

Puck decided to call it quits after that and resumed his duty, occasionally yelling his disgust when he found other sticky substances. Ashbury enjoyed the schandenfreude-ish reaction as the student muttered about how gross his peers were and how he was going to take the imprints embedded onto the gum and investigate them to find out who the sorry son of a...

Ashbury noticed it went quiet all of a sudden.

"Mr. Puckerman?" She called out; the silence was an unusual accompaniment to the chatty student. The edge of the mohawk could be seen from her view at her desk, so she knew that he was still there. Puck stood up, examining something bright in his hands. Ashbury wouldn't dare touch anything underneath those desks much less play with them, but her student's keen interest had gotten her own piqued. "What is it?" She asked.

"A note," Puck answered, reading it closely.

Ashbury frowned. They did warn her about less wholesome students; there were cheaters in each class. "Cheat sheets?" She guessed, picking up the seating chart under her mess of papers.

Puck shook his head but remained confused. "Uhh... I don't know. I don't think they're study notes, Prof. I haven't read a poem like this in our texts. I don't recognize this poet at all."

Ashbury refrained from saying that with Puck's engagement in the course, there were many poets whom he was un-introduced. She had to inspect it for herself. "Give it here, Mr. Puckerman. I will deal with this." The small sticky note fell onto her palm and she read it when his back was turned, an inexplicable need of secrecy inhabiting her furtive movements. The handwriting was neat, uncluttered in the cramped space, and all in all, it was beautiful. The poem was simply succinct, contrasting the floral prose her students dug up from the thesaurus to make them sound intelligent. There was a single emotion that emanated from the words and the purposeful pauses. Affection.

Ashbury picked up the seating chart. Her students migrated like birds, taking the window seats when it was a breezy spring day, residing in the back to take in the warmth from the heater during fall, and sitting a breath away when midterm season came to be, however there was more or less a seat each student favored. Examining the desk where Puck had procured the note, Ashbury correlated it to the names on the seating chart. Only two students had ever frequently sat there for her to consider them.

 

* * *

{ The set lit up.

 

Blaine was a few minutes late to class. He wasn't tardy normally, as he would drive ten minutes in advance to make sure he had an early head start of four minutes to review whatever it was that needed his attention for class. Say all people wanted, Blaine got top marks and he kept it that way. Needless to say, his expression was haggard when he walked into the lit lecture.

What happened was some idiot had backed up an entire block of traffic in the busiest of intersections. To make matters worse, his parking spot near the Humanities building had been taken, and he almost slipped and fell due to a packet of opened lube at the well of the steps. Briefly appalled at whomever had the audacity to engage in illicit school rendezvous, Blaine set a mental note to scrub his soles with bleach when he got home to get rid of the slime and heavily artificial scent of strawberry-banana.

Upon arrival to his class, he saw that another student, a student whom Blaine knew too well, had taken his usual seat. Ignoring the stares from the other seated students and the professor; Blaine hastily took the unoccupied seat in front of his favorite spot, unhappy with the creaking chair's whine under his weight. As the professor and her TA were beginning to hand out Xeroxes, Blaine took the chance to tilt back and glance judgmentally at his rival. He cleared his throat, gathering the other boy's attention. The guy had the nerve to smirk.

"Problem?" The boy asked lightly. Oh, Blaine was not in the mood for this.

"You know it." Blaine spat out and ignored Pierce's disinterest from her phone to watch their upcoming squabble. The other boy kept the cocksure grin, his brown eyes breezy and unaffected by Blaine's obvious "please-keel-over-with-constipation" glare. In his hand he twirled a pen over and over with nonchalance. Blaine wanted to grab that pen and throw it out the window, just to see Chang's expression. God, he drove Blaine nuts.

 

 //

 

Blaine Anderson and Michael Chang Jr.'s rivalry was widespread amongst their peers because of how odd it seemed. The two never bickered about each other’s personal lives and kept to themselves most often than not but always had opposing views and chronically butted heads when it came to debate. Both were articulate and intelligent in their speech and rebuttals as well as their written work; the two were the top ranked students in the group of a hundred. They gave off a mature aura, but had a streak of unwieldy competition that made classroom discussion a show with their relentless pursuit of victory.  Rarely did they hang out outside of class, and their place of contact was the one literature course. No one knew how exactly when Mike and Blaine had begun this weird display of one-upmanship, but details included the seat which Mike was currently occupying.

 

//

 

Mike let his attention go elsewhere, eyes darting right as the blonde girl next to him passed a stack of papers, and proceeded to snub Anderson to hand the stack over to his left. He could hear Anderson's quiet mutter and the electric magnetism of those hazel eyes concentrating on him. He guessed he was a bit strange if he liked seeing Anderson frustrated.

 

//

 

Blaine's neck ached when he swiveled to face his desk again and he gritted his teeth at the pang. It was from holding the angle to ineffectively side-eye Chang. He reached for the back of his neck, rubbing at the sore spots, in his head he was devising ways to get Chang back, longing to see a flush of sheepish embarrassment on the other student, one that Blaine himself would incite. Yes, it wasn't enough for Chang to be in a troubling bind; Blaine had to be the one who cornered him into that position. He was satisfied with that train of thought, smiling as he eventually picked up the photocopy to inspect. This was when his professor spoke up, stopping Blaine from reading the passage.

 

//

 

"Students, good morning. I've graded your poetry analyses yesterday..." the classroom rabble died instantly, "...and many of you did not exceed my expectations." Ashbury rolled her graying coal-brown eyes to her right upon hearing her class' collective groan and occasional slur.  Pressing on, she held out the sheet of paper. "But, one of your peers found this rare gem among you which has inspired me to give you a booster assignment to save your grades. First of all, has everyone read the poem? We'll analyze in about five minutes."

 

//

 

He watched wordlessly as Ashbury returned to her stool and quickly shifted his eyes down to the paper. He couldn’t believe it. This was his poem. What was it doing here, photocopied for the entire class to see? He felt a heat creep up in his cheeks, a tremble jittering in his fingers. Whispered segments of his stanzas had his throat go dry and his stomach to lurch. All of them a confession of his—It was a spontaneous whim, the poem; he didn't mean to write it! Or... he did, sort of... in some way he wanted to form his weird fogged up thoughts into a clear conscious. But to have it displayed like that for the class to read, not mention analyze? He was glad that he never bothered to write his name on that tiny scrap.

 

//

 

Ashbury piped up, the one who makes the most convincing argument gets additional credit.

Of course Anderson had his hand up, his wrist dipping up and down in a small wave to get their professor's attention; Mike saw a colorful cord circling Anderson's wrist, the resin beads bobbing up and down by his flailing. Mike already knew what the poem was about. And just to spite Anderson, he stretched his arm straight up.

 

//

 

"Mr. Chang," Ashbury acknowledged, to Blaine's outrage. Blaine fought the urge to twist around because he didn’t need to see that crooked smile. Chang's smug aura was enough visual stimulation for him to see nothing but crimson. There was a rustling noise from Chang shuffling his papers to organize them, and Blaine could imagine them being arranged neatly into a corner. In the times he sat behind Chang, that's what the other boy did whenever he was ready to explain, maybe it was some sort of weird chi-gathering meditation to help with debates, whatever it was, it was aggravatingly effective. Not to mention, Chang had this way of explaining, no, it was the way he spoke that itched. His words were invisible niggling fingers that tickled over Blaine's chest, ears, and the back of his neck. This uncomfortable sensation only elevated whenever Chang sat behind him, like Blaine could sense his eyes over his neck with that same unsettling determination. Shivering involuntarily, Blaine rubbed the back of his neck, purposely keeping his eyes on his own copy.

 

// 

 

“The speaker’s love is purely physical,” Mike began, outlining an explanation in abstract space as his pen swam in the air with energetic, brazen gesturing. “Mentions, ‘shoulders are curved accolades that draw my eyes like notes on a bar’ in line 1, that happens to be the first thought of the speaker. It’s a sexual attraction.” Mike ignored the intrusive catcalls from the other students; all they did was delay his exposé.

“Then he lists things off, but via the five senses. First was sight, next is hearing. ‘Words like the grass shoots in spring’ makes me think that the person the speaker is describing is someone refreshing, bold and new like spring.”

“ _Tch._ ”

Mike’s ears prickled at the familiar fizz of breath coming from the student seated in front of him. It seemed whatever he did, Anderson was constantly on him, mocking him. Mike had never second-guessed himself in any of his academics but with Anderson... he knew what to say that had Mike hesitant for a slight second. It made him feel not stupid but something else, new, disorienting, and embarrassing. His brain was frantic on figuring out what he had missed or mistaken.

“What, Anderson? Were you upset that I took your idea?” Mike asked and he felt better with the class’ backing him up with their chorus of “ooh”s.

 

//

 

Chang had to be off his game if he couldn’t catch what the speaker wrote, Blaine thought and spun back in his chair to give Chang one of his superior-than-thou glances. Watching the boy frown made it all the sweeter when he revised the explanation. “Spring does invoke a feeling of freshness, but the focus is on the grass shoots instead. What Mr. Chang failed to notice is that the grasses are shoots, little sprigs of green digging out the dirt and the cold of winter to greet the morning sun. That’s what the speaker is alluding to, that this person speaks at the right moment and never before. You should close your mouth or flies will get in.” He smirked as Chang closed it in a hurry.

“Maybe I was going to get to that if you hadn’t interrupted? Or would you have passive-aggressively cut in with another one of your dramatically stuffy sighs?”

“Yeah, you would get to it, only after wasting half the class on a different tangent—”

Ashbury shut them both with a loud thwack of her ruler against the chalkboard. “Mr. Anderson, Mr. Chang, not today please. You both get credit for attempting the evaluation, though I hope you both don’t mind sharing half the points as your explanations work off each other. Now as for homework, I want everyone to write a poem for peer review next class, and don’t write your names. Write well, my students! Poems will be half this term’s grade.”

 

* * *

{ Act I. The players entered the stage.

 

By first glance it was obvious of whom the writer was because the entire thing was written in pen and had no white out marks, which equaled a strong sense of confidence. Unique saw nothing to mark or add to; it was absolutely perfect to the last carefully chosen letter. Even if the poems had only class numbers on the top to indicate identity, it was crystal to Unique on whose poem it was in her hands.

"Jeez, Blaine. Overachieving much?” Unique pressed her glossed lips together in mild irritation.

No matter how much they were friends, Unique wanted to bring Blaine down a peg or two when the guy got borderline pompous. But in the territory of fine literature, Blaine could be considered King, which actually provided tough bedrock for that impenetrable ego.

Anyway, having her work cut, pressed, and packed for her meant she still had some time left on the clock. Unique figured it couldn't hurt to take out her phone, and maybe check out any new tweets. Discreetly pulling it from her Coach clutch, she clumsily fumbled and dropped it when a silhouette approached her.

 

//

 

Blaine turned his poem upside down. Nope, it still was horrible. Immediately he thought of candidates for this excuse, listing off one mullet-haired unknown who sat way far back whom Blaine had no interest in acquaintance. Technically it wasn't bad; the usage of poetic devices were correct but unless the speaker was written intentionally cold, the poem came off basically... robotic. It didn't match the subject at all. Looking over the paper, Blaine surmised the writer was trying, there were rubbed out pencil marks and slight abrasion of the paper where it had been repeatedly erased. It didn't help the fact the end result was terrible however. Blaine hoped he wasn't going to guru the hapless dolt later. Ashbury had mentioned before they handed out the random papers that peers could partner up to go over the work together. The final revised poem was to be handed in at the end of the month. Blaine thought whomever the writer of this poem was needed another month or three.

"Now then, after you have edited for your peers, please write your name on the bottom or you will not get marks for this editing session." As per Ashbury's instruction, Blaine scrawled his name at the bottom, wondering whether or not to legibly write his name lest the author wanted to contact him. In the end pride won because he done an awful lot of editing and he wasn't going unaccredited for that.

Everyone got their poems back at the end of class with grimaces at their marked up works, but Blaine was all for the edits—he liked to have another person witness his pen’s might. As he had assumed, his poem was untouched. Unique's playful name swept on the bottom of the page... along with some other notes that Blaine did not predict. Blaine frowned when the footnote said, ‘stay after class.’ He was surprised and none too happy by the demand, yet Blaine lingered anyway after the bell, even more interested in the short commanding note. Blaine couldn't fight curiosity and kind of wanted to see what his friend wanted.

As he sat in his seat, he kept his eyes affixed at Unique, who sat at the end of the rows near the exit. She was texting and Blaine wanted to pull his phone from his pocket to ask her himself what the note meant when she got up and left. “What the?” Blaine mouthed, taken entirely aback, and stood quickly from his own seat, feeling dumb for wasting time. He was definitely not lending her notes for the next quiz, Blaine silently vowed in his head as he began to gather his things. Blaine was skipping lunchtime that he could have been using to get ready for his next class.  Ashbury had already left for lunch break, ready to return for the next class when lunch ended. The spacious lecture hall was vacant save for Blaine.

Or so Blaine thought.

To his utter chagrin, Chang was still here, apparently being the thorn in his everywhere today.

“What.” Blaine said, cutting the chase so rapidly he was basically julienning it. Surprisingly, Chang didn’t spit back with an equally sharp remark and sighed, holding up a piece of paper and mumbled something but Blaine couldn’t hear. Curious, Blaine stepped closer, intentionally intruding into the other boy’s personal space and watched the discomfort with enjoyment. “Sorry, didn’t hear you.” Blaine explained with a touch of slyness.

Blaine didn’t expect Chang to go red all over his face and ears and was further baffled when Chang blurted out, “I need your help.”

 

* * *

{ Act II. What were they?

 

Mike frowned when Anderson started to laugh. Starting to get peeved, Mike told himself to endure and to use some of the meditation techniques his father had taught him when he had to deal with a fool. “Just imagine them in the most difficult of social anxieties: in their underwear amongst a crowd of their peers. Picture their ultimate mental discomfort, Michael. Their tears and shame will give you strength.” His father had never claimed to be a role model. Breathing in and out, Mike imagined Anderson embarrassed in his underwear with the entire lit class laughing at him. There. That was better.

When Anderson finally stopped his giggles that Mike could finally get a word in, he was observing Mike in a bout of curiosity. “Why?” He asked pointedly, hazel eyes bright and prideful. “I’d never anticipate this from you.”

Before he could stop himself Mike fired back that he didn’t foresee high school freshmen in a college sophomore lit class either but Anderson had surprised him. Anderson’s smile dropped and his groomed eyebrows drew close in a frown. Mike mentally smacked himself. This was the complete opposite of what he had set out to do and he was about to apologize when Anderson cut in.

“Height-jokes, ha ha. There are many people under six feet, okay, why does everyone insist that I’m short.” Blaine huffed, the topic a transparent sore spot for the student. “I mean, it doesn’t bother me, if that’s what you were trying to do, and you know what, I gotta get to my next class, so the answer’s n—”

“Wait, wait. I’m sorry.” Mike interrupted and ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean it, it slipped out.”

Anderson narrowed his eyes and pushed past Mike, heading to the stairwell. “Do you know what also slipped out? Me saying n—”

“Wait, come on, don’t say it.” Mike turned around, following Anderson’s pace easily with his longer legs.

“Nnnnoooooooo—” Anderson was deliberate in his answer as he refused to even see Mike and continued down the lecture hall steps.

“Anderson.” Mike implored, rolling his eyes at the boy’s dramatics.

“—ooooooooooooope.” God, Anderson could hold a word.

“Anderson, don’t be a jerk.” Mike began to understand how children felt when their parents ignored them.

Anderson was almost to the door but was stopped by a soft grip on his wrist. He tensed and stretched his neck back, giving Mike an once-over and lowering his gaze to Mike’s hand circling his wrist. He was perturbed and suspicions rose as Mike stayed silent, he too confused on what to do. All signs in his head alerted him to drop Anderson’s hand, but he was afraid if he did, Anderson would run. His thumb felt the cool resin bead of Anderson’s hipster indie-kid bracelet that Mike despised, yet Mike subconsciously ran his thumb over it.

“Blaine,” Mike began without meaning to, for some reason Anderson’s first name fell naturally from his mouth. Luckily, his throat-tightening nervousness overpowered his own surprise. “I...” Mike mumbled and sighed, his words going nowhere. Anderson pulled his hand away, broken from whatever trance he was under, his typical characteristic daring covered by an exasperated flush. Finding words too difficult to organize, Mike by all means shoved the paper in his hand into Anderson’s and shrank away, giving some personal space.

Anderson was dubious as he corrected the paper into a readable position and next glanced at it. Mike watched with little humor as Anderson’s face changed from confusion to recognition.

“My god,” Anderson was sniggering again, “ _you_ were the one who wrote _this_? Oh wow, I can’t breathe...”

Please die from the lack of air, Mike wanted to say but instead deadpanned that it was a “very rough draft” as the other student folded in amusement. “Can you help?” He gruffly asked, knowing that the worst was behind him. Mike would argue that the tone wasn’t begging, it was more like a slightly desperate inquiry.

“Pfft, no. You’re a train wreck.” Anderson promptly replied and laid the paper carelessly onto a desk beside him.

Mike cocked his head at an angle; he wasn’t used to rejection like that before. He had predicted that Anderson would be won over. “What? What the hell? I thought—”

“That I take charity cases? No. I will never ever help you, Chang. Why did you even ask?” Anderson crossed his arms and was eyeing the hallway.

“Because...”

Mike wondered the same thing. Why did he want Anderson’s help, out of everyone? Sure, people were in the reluctant consensus that Blaine Anderson was the best, but he could have just contacted someone else, or even the professor herself. But then Mike understood why. He felt a sense of panic that he had to explain to Anderson right now or it would be lost. Just as Mike opened his mouth, the bell rang. Anderson let out a disappointed groan at the fading rings and glared at Mike with open, uninhibited hostility.

“Great, now if you don’t mind, I’m going to be late for my next class. Thanks a lot, ass.” Anderson muttered and ran into the hallway, leaving Mike behind in the empty lecture hall.

 

//

 

The thumping noises only grew louder and louder as time progressed and although Blaine had locked the door to his room and had stuffed a bunch of his old high school hoodies into the cracks in the doorframe to stop the fetid rank of pot and beer kegs from seeping inside, his brother’s idiotic frat reunion party managed to display its loserish existence.

There was muffled shouting and screaming over the “sick smooth Luvstep beats” and Blaine disliked how his mind could interpret the garbled message into clarity. It was, “Jell-O shots, bitch!” Blaine crossed his arms and yanked off his striped bowtie, neck chafed all of a sudden. He longed to go downstairs to his kitchen and have something to drink, but he was sure that his brother had constructed some sort of juvenile slip-n-slide with oil and butter and the drunken Ivy League has-beens were itching to belittle him if he was in their sights.  

“Yo, I thought your bro went to private school, man? Why’s he at State?”

Blaine wanted to explain why exactly he was at State, that Cooper needed more than the scholarship offered for a term’s tuition and that his family, although prosperous, didn’t have the “generous donation” for a new school wing, which probably explained how more than half of the partygoers were considered applicants. But he kept it to himself, knowing that his brother felt plenty awful about it, and Blaine told Cooper not to worry about it so much and to enjoy it.

He sighed and stretched his arms over his head, sore from sitting for a while. He flicked off his lamp and stared at his poem. Unique didn’t write over anything in her glittery violet pen and wrote it off with her blessing but Blaine didn’t want to hand it in. It wasn’t his best work.

He had written better.

If only he could write like that again he could be a shoo-in for the transfer program. Blaine instantly clutched at his stomach, awash with a make-believe sickness that felt real. Falling onto his bed, Blaine grimaced at the ceiling. Blaine wasn’t kidding anyone and he was aware of the percentage of success. It was slimmer than he liked.

Marks-wise, he considered himself as above average, but in truth didn’t particularly excel in anything except for English and Literature. He wanted to take Theater but the class was full. He was involved in outdoor activities, volunteer, and he sang with his high school a cappella group for numerous events, but the applicants they featured in the Ivy Leagues seemed inhuman or were extraordinary people who discovered a rare strain of e. coli bacteria by conducting a nationwide fast food drink survey or developed a sustainable farming system for farmers in the third world through the green power of processing jujube husks. Blaine’s itinerary was lackluster in comparison. If there was anything his college featured, it was that they had a hugely competitive and selective Poetry and Creative Writing Scholarship. There were no runner-ups and the two winners’ works would be featured in famed publications: Ploughshares, Harper’s, the Atlantic, and ultimately, the New Yorker.

The New Yorker had a circulation of minimum a million readers per issue. It was the oldest and most coveted, honored, and esteemed literary magazine. When anyone said they had anything published in the New Yorker, it meant something. Blaine wanted to mean _something._

"Yeeeahhh, let's get shitfaced tonight!" A holler from downstairs ruined the daydream, reminding Blaine of where he was. There was a raucous clash and scraping of wood on wood. Some idiot was moving the furniture around. Blaine felt a headache coming on and rubbed at his temples to alleviate the tension to little effect as another loud smash could be heard.

Blaine wrapped the pillow around his ears as chants of "chug" filtered into his room. He wanted to get out, or talk to someone. Find something to take his mind off drunken shouting. Briefly checking his cell phone, Blaine wasn't surprised by what he saw. His phone showed no missed calls or texts.

Well, he had no friends. What he had were acquaintances here and there, but no one to really call a “friend”. He wasn’t lonely. Blaine figured at the rate he was allocating his spare time, he didn’t need them; if he got to where he wanted to go and became who he wanted to be, people would naturally flock to his brilliance. But the emphasis was on the if. Two letters that joined into one of the shortest words yet offered the longest of possibilities. If.

If he could leave Lima.

It had been a while since his best friend moved to New York, happy to leave Ohio, and a while since she had sent Blaine a hello. It was understandable, she was enrolled in an internship program for musical theater. What he remembered of the stage was it was ruthless, demanded attention, and was perfect for Rachel Berry. In ways, he was glad that his friend was absorbed in her new endeavors. Rachel was meant for the stage.

What did he stand for? Who am I, Blaine thought, staring at his cell phone with disinterest.

 **Blaine?** His phone answered.

Blaine jerked up from his position to sit upright. The backlight faded and Blaine pressed a button to turn it on again.

He had one new text.

There was fear in his gut as he read over the one-word message. The number was Ohio, and Blaine never gave out his number if he could, but there were instances where sometimes he wasn’t in his best state of mind and passed it out like water. Should he ignore it? Answer it? Or call and demand to know whom it was? Blaine didn’t know! He had better things to do.

His eyes slunk back to the paper on his desk and inexplicably the distance between his bed and his desk resembled half a mile of war-torn No Man’s Land. Determining that he could finish the poem later when he had his epiphany, his inevitable Eureka moment of writing genius, Blaine chose to humor the stranger. Reviewing the message again, Blaine flipped onto his stomach in a more comfortable texting position.

 

**419-xxx-xxxx:**

**Blaine?**

 

It was a straightforward question.

**this is he. who’s this? how did you get this number?**

 

Blaine texted back and waited for an answer. He decided to confirm his name because it wasn’t as if the other person on the line was going to stalk and kill him... Blaine made a mental note to change his phone number if he didn’t get a reply in a week. Seeming as the stranger was not going to answer back, Blaine went on in his leisure. He was a minute into Angry Birds Space when an alert flashed before his screen.

 

**419-xxx-xxxx:**

**Good. I got your number from Unique, in our lit class?**

**It’s Mike Chang.**

 

Blaine let out a scoff as he read the name. No way. No fucking way. Was Chang plotting to ruin his night, too?

 

**no fucking way.**

 

Blaine believed his thought was descriptive enough to be an adequate text.

 

**HOW did you get my number, chang.**

 

He frowned at the “...” appearing on his message screen as Chang was typing back a response.

**From Unique? I thought I already texted that.**

**no, no. HOW. accent on how. i told her to never give out my number. plus, you have terrible reading comprehension skills.**

**Here’s a funny thing, maybe people don’t like to follow orders from someone with a Napoleonistic Complex. She gave it to me willingly when I asked.**

**And if we’re going to be picky about texts, you sound like a preteen on Twitter.**

 

Chang’s replies were fast, reminding Blaine of their verbal banter in class. Good, it looked like he could keep up with Blaine’s own rapid texts. Blaine mock-hummed a cheerful tune as he switched up the topic. He had a lot of unsettled sentiment from his day.

 

**oh yeah, by the way, i was almost late to history today, ass.**

**You were late to Lit today. What’s the big deal?**

**the ‘big deal’ is that whereas the dumbass blocking half the intersection was someone i could not avoid, the dumbass who wasted my lunchtime was someone i could.**

**…look, I’m sorry about that.**

**you don’t sound sincere.**

**Goddamn, did you find a fly in your hair gel or something? You’re pressed as fuck.**

 

“Pressed as...?” Blaine repeated in astonishment. His fingers flew.

 

**says the one who was acting weird during lunch?**

**what's this about anyway?**

**are you trying to get me angry or something?**

**i don’t know why i’m humoring you by continuing this.**

**i could block you.**

 

Blaine nearly dropped his phone when it began to buzz. Chang was actually calling him. Blaine let it go through to the third ring and was content on letting his voicemail handle it but decided it would be better to face head-on and get it through Chang’s obtuse mind. He picked up the call.

“I'm really sorry, Blaine.”

Blaine’s readied speech about how Chang was the scum of the earth was forgotten at the end of the sentence. Chang sounded sincere...ish. No he doesn’t, a wary voice argued in his head. Remember that you hate the guy.

“And about today, I know that we’re not friends, or will be, but I’m asking, no actually, this is begging, would you help me? The reason why I’m basically desperate is that you are the best. And I a-acknowledge that fully.” Chang was stuttering.

He probably doesn’t have his papers to shuffle, the voice supplied.

Shut up, Blaine, he told himself. He was intrigued by what Chang was conveying, albeit poorly.

“To be honest, no one can compare to you. Your poem? I read it and analyzed it and wow, alright, it was wow. It’s like something right from the study texts. You’re talented and, and... I’m working on this application.” There was a familiar and defeated sigh on the line.

Blaine swallowed a lump down his throat and his hands were beginning to get clammy. He could deduce where this was headed.

“It’s for a transfer,” Chang softly admitted, “and I need to over-exceed. Do you see the alumni they feature on the websites? They aren’t human.” This gathered a tiny smile from Blaine.

“And I remembered, from the first day of class, how you read your goals essay for the class saying that you were heading for the Ivies and that this moment of your life was, and I quote, ‘fleeting’... No one was listening to you, I know, because I was sitting behind you, watching, thinking the same thing as everyone else. That you wouldn’t make it.”

His smile disappeared and he let out a soft breath, gripping the front of his shirt as his chest heaved. Thinking about it was weight, as if it were a balloon running out of helium, sagging to the earth. But someone else saying it added an anchor to the thought, it plunged from the lofty world of unsaid speech, and crashed.

"But you're always proving me wrong. You're one of the reasons why the class average is above a B-minus. The way I see it, you made it already there and... you have an irritatingly effective way of making others want to try too. So, yeah. You don't have to help me, and I'm not looking for pity either. I called to tell you."

This was the longest he had heard Chang talk without prepared notes or interruptions. Chang on the phone was the complete opposite of how he articulated in class, he had no calculated brevity in his tone, his syntax was boringly common teenager, and there were too many pockets of dead air. Blaine blamed it on the tiredness, the numbing stench from alcohol and second-hand pot, because he actually preferred how Mike Chang's voice sounded on the phone. His brain cells were drunk and high and out of it, Blaine thought as he listened to Chang murmur on the line.

"...Blaine? You there?"

He should have answered back quickly but hearing the other whisper "fuck" under his breath stopped Blaine from saying anything. A millisecond after that there was nothing. Beeping that the call was over, his phone logged the data. 23:12. Twenty-three minutes and twelve seconds. When did time fly by? Blaine didn't talk at all. It crushed the previous record of 15:37, which he held with Rachel.

Slowly and reluctantly, his finger tapped the number twice to edit and he typed out "C-H-A-N-G" and saved the new contact. Blaine felt a muscle near his mouth twitch up, fighting with himself as all alarms went off in his head as he typed:

 

**i'm not going to help you but you can hire me.**

**$5/hour. i'm offering a great rate and if you text now in five minutes, you get an hour free.**

 

Blaine smirked at the incoming instant messages. And then had to stifle a small laugh.

 

**Chang:**

**I'll take it; I'm a desperate man.**

**...Also, did you mean to add innuendo?**

**Or is it my inept 'reading comprehension' skills again? I've been told I can't understand tone.**

 

Chuckling quietly, Blaine took a small breath as he thought of what to say back. Wondering whether or not to add in the final touches, he concluded that it would show that he was teasing so he pressed on the emoticon.

 

**i'm detecting sarcasm... rude :V**

**Sorry, sorry. I'll be more polite. :)**

 

The smiley-face looked absurd; it hardly fit the image of his rival and from what he knew Chang wasn't the emoticon type if he could help it. This sacrifice of his supposed serious persona was what cemented Chang's actions as honest to Blaine. It also shut away the nagging voice in his mind, which decided to go elsewhere like the sore loser it was, leaving Blaine to think about what to say next. The rhythmic clack of his keypads tapped away the short seconds in Blaine’s reply.

 

**we can start tomorrow at lunch, make no other plans. your hell begins at noon.**

**How ominous. Alright, tomorrow.**

**i'd oversee it tonight but my brother has got this meet and i'm coming down with a headache so i'm going to bed.**

 

Blaine failed to reason why he had told Chang about his situation but the text was already gone, freed from his hands and eager to be sent like a secret Blaine could finally tell. Leaving the phone on the bed, Blaine sighed and stretched his neck. He had a crick on the side from holding it too long.

Now feeling the toll of his haphazard day, Blaine got up to wash for bed, cutting his regular shower short because there was no hot water, which Blaine didn’t want to question why but put two and two together when he remembered the inflatable kiddie pool one of the “bros” brought in. When Blaine returned to his bed, there was one new text waiting for him. He smirked at the message, turning off his lights as he retired to his bed. The pale glow of his phone haloed his face as he bit his lips whilst reading the text.

 

**Chang:**

**By ‘meet’ you probably meant ‘raging wild kegger where everyone makes all the wrong choices and comes to regret them in about six hours in the form of radioactive puke’. Tell your brother to steam-clean the walls, it’ll help get the stains out faster.**

Blaine texted back not out of necessity, as there was nothing necessary about texting at 1 in the morning but out of the knowledge that many things in life were not necessities, but were needed.

**speaking from experience? didn’t know of you as the type.**

**Anderson, there is much you don’t know.**

**okay you can’t call me that anymore.**

**Why, and don’t say it’s because that is your father’s name.**

**no, it reminds of me of the matrix.**

**Neo?**

**yes. i’m not a fan of the series. besides, almost all Andersons in the history of Andersons have been or are remarkably unremarkable.**

**I don’t think so.**

**name some that i would know and no using google.**

**Uhh... Jesse Anderson?**

**who’s that?**

**A murderer, who was killed by another inmate in prison.**

**classy choice. a murderer who got murdered.**

**How about Carl David Anderson? He discovered the positron in ‘32, got a Nobel Prize in ‘36.**

**where did you learn about him? physics 202?**

**AP Physics... and that’s all for now.**

**so a killer and a scientist. okay.**

**Those were the only ones I could name off the top of my head.  
**

**don’t strain yourself; i’m going to bed. i think my headache’s getting worse.**

 

He figured he didn’t owe Chang in any way for a proper good night and dug deeper into the covers, burrowing from the noise. That’s how he thought moles would do, escape from all the ruckus of the surface into the silent darkness. Darkness was quiet and stationary and forever. The light was loud, demanded to be heard, and like an explosion it moved blindingly instant. In some sort of cosmic response of his introspection, his phone flashed. It illuminated the cotton walls of his blanket cavern in a cold white shine before dying out again, stirring behind Blaine’s closed eyes in glowing streams that visually fizzled and popped. He opened his eyes and checked his phone.

 

**Sleep well. Hope you feel better soon because it's no fun in class when you're not a threat. Though to call you a threat is like calling the Smurfs terrorists.**

 

A side of his lips twitched and Blaine’s other hand joined the one holding his phone upright to sleepily thumb back:

 

**night. you're going to regret texting that, i promise.**

 

The words glowed momentarily before they too blinked out.

 

//

 

“This is bad.” Anderson told him at once when Mike handed one of his drafts across the library table.

Mike frowned and tried to understand the enigma that was Blaine Anderson. “You didn’t even read it,” he said, offended by the refusal. Draft twenty-three had a very good feel to it.

“You titled your poem ‘draft twenty-three’,” stated Anderson matter-of-factly.

“But that’s what it is?” He tapped his pen against the wood until Anderson gave him a look. So Mike began to twirl it across his fingers, maneuvering the pen to soar and cascade down in flashy loops. Anderson was staring at the movement without care, face blank when Mike spun his wrist to jetty the pen into the air and catch it gracefully with two fingers when it fell down from its mountainous arc. He was unashamedly putting on a show, needless showboating in all good fun, and mindlessly played with the pen as his thoughts drew elsewhere. Like for instance, how Anderson was really focusing on the pen—

Anderson lunged and grabbed the pen out of his hand.

Mike would have been taken aback by the hasty attack (and he did flinch a bit) but became amused when he peered over and noticed that Anderson's entire body was draped over the table. Only his legs were dangling off the edge comically.

"I will throw your pen out the window if you do that again." Anderson threatened lowly, wagging the pen in a rebuking manner. Once again, the effect was diminished by how silly he appeared lying on the table, and Mike questioned if Anderson recognized how ridiculous he looked. Anderson scooted off the table and sat back in the unyielding library chair, rolling Mike’s pen in his hands as if it were silly putty, muttering about useless hand tricks.

Mike rolled his eyes, Anderson was about as fun as sponging down Great Grandmama. Speaking of which, it was a disturbing image that had traumatized him severely when he had been a kid and Mike did not need to revisit that golden memory. Refocusing to the task on hand, Mike held up draft number twenty-three to catch more of the low-hanging lamps in the college library. The light shone through the lined paper, highlighting Mike’s previous attempts at poetry. Faded pencil markings and some angry scribble blobs deterred the eraser and pockmarked draft number twenty-three, but it was still legible. He leaned back in his hard wooden chair and dropped his paper to table-level. “This is my last one, I don’t have twenty-four ready,” said Mike, keeping his tone away from petulant complaining. He didn’t want to offend Anderson when it seemed that he was in okay graces.

Anderson laid Mike’s pen on the table and crossed his arms. “Read it,” he commanded with false authority, and Mike, if he were not in such a disadvantaged situation, would have been more than happy to knock Anderson off his high horse, and better yet, have the metaphorical horse then shit on him. That did nicely. Mike realized that he was probably smiling blankly as Anderson was gesturing with his hands something that came off as “any time now would be great”.

“Okay, this is,” Mike took a breath to calm down, “draft number twenty-three.” He shook the paper in his hand to hear it flap in the air, the sound clean and crisp and right in Mike’s ears. His lips felt like they had been glued together when Mike parted them, sticking to each other like playmates reluctant to say goodbye. “You are fire, hot in all terrors of the word, and burn...” Mike slowly brought his eyes up from his words, resting them above the white fence of his paper to look over at Anderson, who was writing something. Letting them fall back to where he was reading, Mike’s face began to color in embarrassment. Anderson wasn’t even listening to his stupid poem; it was, no argument about it, pretty much terrible but couldn’t the guy feign interest so Mike could save a bit of face? He went on reading, his voice was forced out to show no emotion as he finally got to the last word.

Anderson had the gall to look at him finally with a smile. “Done? How was it?” He asked lightly and Mike was ready to jump at him and do horrible things with the nearest Oxford Extended Edition Dictionary and Anderson’s nose.

“How should I know, all I did was read it.” Mike grumbled and frowned when Anderson nodded in what was in an approving way.

“See, that’s where your problems lie. You’re reading your poem. You should _feel it_.” Before Mike could say anything, Anderson got up, rounded the entire table with his tiny-quick rabbit-like steps, and sat next to him, presenting his own sheet of paper. At first Mike ignored the sheet but his eyes went over anyway in betrayal of his pride and was surprised by what was written. It was draft twenty-three, however it was condensed to the point that it was barely three lines.

“These lines are powerful and held my interest. See for yourself. ‘You’re ash that lingers in the ringed edge of the tray, no matter how much I try, I’ll never be able to clean you away.’ These are nice. Rest are crap.” It had felt weird hearing his poem read by someone else, especially Anderson saying it; it was as if the poem wasn’t his at all. His tedious words sounded not only poetic, which was the goal, but also emotive, which was weirdly satisfying. Mostly, it was how they were uttered. Anderson didn’t say them, Anderson breathed them.

If Mike had to wax poetic (and he had to because Anderson said he needed all the practice he could get), he could picture a quiet night in the suburbs, under a cloudless night sky washed with orangish-purple polluted light and few brave stars. Anderson was smoking a cigarette and blowing out a big puff of smoke, whittling down the translucent gray ball into the thinnest wisp. He could see Anderson cough and hack a second later and whining that his eyes were burning, because smoking wasn’t really a Blaine thing, and ended up buffing out the lit end under the rubber soles of his neat brown shoes after burning half an inch. With that scene in mind, Mike repeated the line with the same enunciation aloud to Anderson’s encouragement, watching Anderson’s twisted grin appear at the right corner and eyes crinkle into happy lines from beaming.

“Alright, let’s start on another, I’ll help you with a title this time.” Anderson said and Mike was glad that the other boy turned away because he was nauseous from all the dactylic gibberish known as reciting poetry.

“So, who was it?” Anderson quipped teasingly, a break from the several hours of explaining poetic terminologies. His hands netted under his chin and the darkened skin of the barest five o’clock shadow which Mike had never noted until now. Judging by the smooth curve of his jawline, Anderson probably shaved regularly to stave off what could potentially be a scruffy beard. Not that Anderson would ever let it get to that point, Mike contemplated that Anderson was probably the type who sliced the chicken pieces in his chicken salad until they were tastefully suitable for his mouth. There was a faint throb of irritation pinging in the back of his head; Mike hated those particular kind who cared too much about style and too less about substance.

“Who was what.” Mike replied, head dull from scrutinizing innumerable synonyms for “cool”. It was nearing 6 PM, and whilst Mike never had problems studying for extended periods of time, he wasn’t inclined to be solely devoted to one topic. He had to catch up on his other projects when he got home. Anderson didn’t seem to mind that he was truncating his own studying time but Mike guessed that was probably because Anderson was one of those prodigies who didn’t need to study. Another wave of that irksome sensation lapped inside him, swirling into a headache.

Anderson was pleased with himself as he elaborated, “The subject in _draft twenty-three_.” The way Anderson accented his poem was short of vainglorious.

“No. Body.” Mike spelled it out clear. He honestly wasn’t thinking about anyone when he wrote it because he had been occupied with how crappily it was written.

“There’s always somebody, even if you don’t mean to,” Anderson chirped, “there’s always somebody.”

Mike’s fingers ran up to circle a side of his temple, it was aching and Anderson was the major cause of it. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.” He mumbled and dragged a red line over a word in draft thirty. He had argued with Anderson and got to keep his titles, he considered that one of the battles he had won over the other. And it wasn’t a bad thing to call them drafts; if it wasn’t broke, why fix it? It was pointless. Mike felt an urge to crumple the paper and throw it as far as he could and clenched his teeth tight to prevent them from grinding. He sighed, getting short-tempered from his building frustration and disliking how he was powerless to steady his mood. The library was readying to close, Mike heard the librarian’s aides informing students to start packing up, and he didn’t improve at all. All he was doing was shelling out fifteen dollars, which Anderson collected at the start of his supposed lesson.

“And that’s it for today. From what I’ve seen, you know your fundamentals and textbook definitions of the devices you’re using. So you’re not a _complete_ moron. Next time, we’re going to just go over diction, might take long so don’t make plans unless you get miraculously good.” Anderson was gathering his papers, lackadaisically unaware to how many hours Mike had spent patiently heeding all of Anderson’s jagged barbs while poring over each word, letter, and punctuation, and how they tasted when combined together that something in Mike snapped and broke into ugliness.

“I know diction, Anderson, it’s not like I’m an idiot. Why don’t you actually teach me something I don’t know instead of wasting my time and money with this study group bullshit.” There was a gratifying tinder for his anger when Anderson reeled around with his own trademark scowl.

“Hey, Chang, this ‘study group bullshit’? Your fucking plan.” Anderson raised his voice, arms out. There was a shush somewhere but Mike was too busy with his own remarks.

“No, my fucking plan was you actually helping me, wait no, I’m hiring you because you don’t have the heart to help, right.”

“I told you I’d never help you, Chang, go cry about it to someone else. You’ve been nothing but a morose, mopey asshole for the past hour. What happened? Girlfriend dump your ass so you’re writing sad poems?”

“Shut the fuck up, that’s not it.” Mike bristled and although it went against his every code, he stepped in close, easily looming over Anderson. His hand gripped the top of the chair like a vice that the knuckles were turning white.

Anderson didn’t back down and only smirked wider, letting out a huffing laugh. “Aw, buddy, don’t feel so fucking bad, everyone goes through it. You’re not fucking special.” As if to challenge him, Anderson came up closer to his face. Mike felt the hot, almost hateful breaths from Anderson’s mouth and the lamplight in the library made the hazel in Anderson’s eyes an electric hot wire.

“And are you?” Mike announced pointedly, grinning teeth with no joy in his smile, “you’re in the same boat as me. No one gives a fuck about you.” The way Anderson’s eyes grew rounder and the heat of anger pooled in the other’s face was enough for Mike.

It was enough for the librarian as well when she kicked them both out and banned them from using the facilities for a month.

They meant to avoid each other, but fate had it that they parked right next to each other. Anderson yanked his car door open and Mike fought not to wish that Anderson’s car would spontaneously combust and that the boy’s incredibly gelled hair caught on fire. Traveling the parking lot was a hassle, once Anderson started he wouldn’t shut up and Mike longed to just do something to have Blaine Anderson be speechless for once. Maybe he could block the guy’s mouth... no, Anderson would probably bite. Mike hadn’t realized Anderson was in discussion with him, it was more like one-sided yelling that he was expertly tuning out, until a poorly crafted snowball whizzed by his ear. It was January, cold since Mike was a kid and cold still, and the snow around the Lima area had been mutating into slush from a rainstorm that passed by not too long ago. He wasn’t going to stoop to Anderson’s level and return fire, but he did glare warningly at the wet glob in Anderson’s right hand.

Anderson dropped it; his hand was likely freezing and his breaths were foggy bursts as he wiped his hand with a handkerchief. Mike returned to wiping off the snow from his own sedan’s door but stopped because Anderson swore.

“You have _got to be kidding me_.”

It looked like Anderson’s car wasn’t starting. Mike quickly raised a hand to cover an evil grin. Karmic retribution was on tonight.

“Don’t say anything, Chang.” Anderson kept on turning the key to no avail and turned to inspect his hood. “Shit, how did I even drive this.” He was muttering to himself and Mike, although he was suited to leave and could at any moment, faltered.

He was going to regret this later but the sudden pick-up of the chilly wind strengthened his resolve. “Call the front desk for a tow and I’ll give you a ride.” Mike said loudly, his volume reaching Anderson who was rummaging under the hood. The other boy peeked out from the car and narrowed his eyes. Come on, don’t be a prideful prick, Mike thought.

It took a few minutes however Anderson agreed, calling the front desk and explaining his situation. Mike did his best not to listen into the conversation and as he wasn’t naturally inquisitive of others’ affairs, he only heard minimum information that the car was to be towed and taken to the nearest mechanic.

Mike had never fabricated a circumstance where it involved him sharing his car with Blaine Anderson out of all people, and kept his gaze on the road after they buckled in and got the heater going. There wasn’t any chat all throughout the drive, both not wanting to shift the tension from awkward to angry. Mike asked for the address and drove carefully through the icy slush, eyes straight ahead, and wheeled left into the neighborhood Anderson indicated. Purposely ignoring the bountiful front lawns and immaculate houses covered with exact pristine amount of snow, Mike’s car slowed when Anderson told him to. They were at the end of the block, where the smaller townhouses were located. Mike was a bit surprised but didn’t show it. He had assumed Anderson was some rich kid. He could change it to upper-middle class, then. From the sound of the seat belt unbuckling, Mike knew he was at the correct place. Anderson seemed eager to leave but remained in his seat, to Mike’s curiosity.

“Um... thanks.” Anderson quietly said. “I know you didn’t have to do that. I probably would have left laughing.”

Mike nodded and ignored the comment, waiting for the door to open and Anderson to leave so he could get back home to his welcoming science texts. It was 7:57 and Mike’s house was the complete opposite direction; it was going to take more than an hour. He actually wanted to push Anderson out of his car but refrained. Anderson was still in his car, hands in his lap, rather polite and demure. It was interestingly strange and Mike admitted to himself that he wanted to see where this was going.

“I have been—awful—and I was trying to be, kind of. I wanted you to call it quits. You can still do it now, how about I write your assignment for you and—”

“Anderson, what kind of person do you think I am.” Mike cut in. His tone wasn’t biting or acerbic; it was honestly direct. “I want good grades, but I’d rather go through study hell with you than cheat. I thought you knew better than that.” And in some degrees, Mike did. Anderson was his greatest rival, but he at least thought the guy respected Mike’s own academic skills as well. “If you think I’d ever accept that offer, now or in the future, do me a favor and get the hell out of my car.”

Mike expected Anderson to sigh out that annoyed huff and slam his car door, to shout at Mike and whatnot, but he was unusually silent and remained sitting on the front passenger’s seat. The car was starting to get cold from the lack of heating and their breaths were visible, and Mike watched as Anderson faced him and shook his head.

“I’m not getting out of this car until you take that back.” There was hidden apology in there, it was easy to tell since Mike was good at analyzing people, and he felt a faint smile lift up his lips. Anderson mirrored him tentatively.

“Then I’m going to drive around until I have that thought. Have a place you like to visit, Blaine Anderson?” Mike started the car and kept his grin, feeling the car vibrate as it warmed up. It seemed his car intended to roam tonight, and Mike was pretty sure that he would stay up all night with formulas and equations, and he didn’t care.

“Anywhere... I like downtown though.” Blaine was adjusting the seat so he could recline a bit, so he could relax a bit. Mike noticed that and set the heat higher with a flick of his hand. Blaine was smiling askew as he then said, “It’s weird.”

“What is?” Mike asked, turning around the corner, away from the fancy villas and tall imposing trees onto a forested road.

“Hearing you saying my first name. It’s weird when I heard you say it once in a fluke, and now since you said it again... I'm surprised that it’s not as annoying as I thought it would be... but don’t expect me to do the same for you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I know how you are with your sociability with us peons.”

That earned a laugh from Blaine.

 

* * *

{ Intermission.

 

Cooper was loafing around on the sofa when Blaine arrived home, kicking off his feet from an armrest and muting an episode of _Seinfeld_ when he heard the door close with a thud. Dressed in loose black sweatpants and a gray Harvard hoodie, Cooper rose from the springy cushions to check who was at the door. He brushed his long side bangs behind his ear as he leaned on a beam, having fun observing Blaine’s incompetence with brushing off the snow from his shoes.

“Squirt, it’s like—” Cooper speedily checked the clock, “—almost nine. I was worried about you!”

“I see no missed calls, Coop.” Blaine reported back with a grin, hanging up his winter coat on a wall rack. The living room was cleaned up to Blaine’s relief, in the morning the place had resembled an abandoned barnyard. Thankfully the weird colored stains on the walls were gone but the house smelled like rotten malted vinegar. Blaine would air out the house in the morning, he decided.

Cooper resumed lying back on the couch, languidly stretching on it like a cat after a nap, and looked up at his younger brother. Batting away Blaine’s crossed arms so that they broke apart, Cooper sat up straight to investigate his brother’s quietness.

“So... ‘sup? Dinner’s on the table, if you want it? Oh yeah, thanks about that steam idea, we got those margarita bits off the wallpaper. Alexei, hahaha, I told her to take it easy! She never listens. Good girl though, great set.” Cooper made a crude scooping motion with his hands.

“Thanks, it was an idea from a friend,” murmured Blaine, not listening to the rest of Cooper’s sentence, as he knew it tend to swerve off-topic. Taking a seat on the couch next to Cooper, Blaine’s eyes were watching _Seinfeld_ but he wasn’t paying attention.

“I’m gonna miss you when you’re gone, baby bro.” Cooper declared, picking up a glass of juice and toasting for the fun of it. He drank it all in one gulp and Blaine smiled, placing the cup under a napkin in a makeshift coaster.

“Yeah, who’s gonna take care you when I’m gone?” Blaine teased in false seriousness. His brother shrugged and pulled out his wallet.

“My friend Benjamin,” was the announcement and Blaine immediately frowned that Cooper awkwardly shoved the bill back into the wallet’s slip. Blaine didn’t like it when Cooper kept large amounts of hundreds in his wallet, his older brother was negligent when it came to cash and preferred to show it off by entertaining his friends. He didn’t want to be a buzzkill, but would it kill Cooper to guard the family inheritance in a safe bank account?

“If Mom and Dad were here, they would have written you off the will entirely.” Blaine deadpanned and Cooper laughed, briskly and loud. Blaine closed his eyes, enjoying the sound, knowing that it was also sad. Cooper noogied him jokingly on the side of his head and Blaine grunted and pushed his older brother off to fix his hair into place.

“They would’ve, they were real disappointed.” Cooper mumbled randomly, soberly. Blaine sighed and gave his brother an awkward side-hug, since it had been years from their last hug and they were both out of practice.

Blaine shook his head, “No, they wouldn’t. You came back so nothing before that matters.”

"Sure, Squirt, sure... shouldn't you go do whatever smart thing you're always up to?" Cooper asked and Blaine just shrugged. He wasn't in the mood to study and next day's classes consisted of his easy A's, so it wasn't a big deal. Maybe he would go to bed early. All of a sudden, his phone vibrated and Blaine looked over the incoming message alert. Chang, take it easy why don't you, Blaine thought as he opened his messages with a smirk.

 

**212-xxx-xxxx:  
**

***Blaine! :DDD It's been too long, hi!!***

There was one new text, New York area code, with that recognizable texting style. Was it odd that he was disappointed in seeing Rachel's familiar "dramatically joyous" (as she put it) happy face? Cooper was spying over his shoulder with a sly smirk that Blaine smacked his arm and announced that he was going to bed.

"Suuuure, Squirt." Cooper sang out ludicrously twangy "bow chika wow wow"s as Blaine rushed upstairs to his room and plopped onto his bed, instantly setting the new number to Rachel Berry.

 

**rachel, long time no speak. you got your cell fixed? :P**

***Yes! It took a while because I wanted to have "T-H-E-S-T-A-R" as my phone number but the phone company wouldn't let me! :'(*  
**

**when you're famous, you won't have to deal with that anymore!  
**

***Right?! :3 So how are you, my dear little Warbler? I know that you're still at State, boo. :/*  
**

**classes are boring. i'm working on my transfer, thinking new york city. ;)  
**

***OH MY GOSH BLAINE YES! <333*  
**

***I need you here as soon as possible! There's this guy you WILL like, he's totally cute!!! And GAY!*  
**

**haha, thanks rachel, but i'll pass.  
**

***What? Oh, is there already somebody that Blaine Anderson likes???? ;)*  
**

***He better be in great shape, because you need a man whose heart is set on you! <3***

**  
** Blaine laughed and rolled onto his back, lifting his phone high overhead. He missed Rachel along with her show choir-ish cheeriness and cheesiness.

 

**ah, grease. john travolta and olivia newton-john were great in that.**

**and nope. no one here is good enough. :P**

***I like your high standards, Blaine. They're just like mine. ;)*  
**

**nonsense, yours are the highest, no contest. i am honestly jealous but your charm has wooed over my green-eyed monster.  
**

***Why thank you, Mr. Anderson.*  
**

**  
** Blaine went quiet and read the text over and over until he felt depressed.

 

**hey, rachel?**

**you still there?  
**

***Mm? Sorry, Blaine! I have to go to bed soon, NYADA is insane! But I can take one last question if I have the time.*  
**

**know of any notable andersons in history?**

**  
** Blaine waited but after five minutes had elapsed, Blaine concluded that Rachel was asleep. New York was three hours faster anyway. His chest hurt again and he knew it was stupid, but his fingers moved of its own accord.

 

**do you have any more andersons?**

**  
** Immediately regretting his blunder, Blaine turned off his phone. What in the world was he thinking? He hurriedly got ready for bed and slept, under the pretense of being tired when Cooper came up to check on him when it was really his own foolish phobias.

When he woke up and turned on his phone, groggy with no recollection of anything, Blaine was startled by three whizzing alerts across his phone's screen upon powering on.

 

**Chang:**

**Bud Anderson, triple ace in WWII. Just read about him in my history textbook.  
**

**And I can't believe I forgot Wes Anderson, he's a well-known director. I'm a big fan of his films.  
**

**Think you'd like them too, unless you've already seen them.  
**

**  
** Blaine yawned, stretching his arms into the air. Rubbing at his eyes with one hand, Blaine manuevered his other hand to tap out "M-I-K-E". He next texted his answer:

 

**funny thing, i think i've heard of him too. he's okay but i haven't seen his films yet.  
**

**  
** Mike's reply was snap-fast that Blaine had to squint a little to see if he wasn't dreaming. It was around 6 AM. Blaine normally didn't even wake up this early.

 

**Mike:**

**Then I win. I found an Anderson in the history of Andersons who, based on your ridiculous high standards, doesn't suck.  
**

**Gotta go for a run, see you in class, Blaine.  
**

**  
** Of course Mike Chang ran in the mornings, he was from what Blaine saw glimpses of, well-built. He probably had great stamina. Blaine shook his head into his hand, fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. What the hell was he thinking. He needed more sleep... after a text.

**hmph, fine. this round, chang... :P**

**see you in class.**

**  
** Technically, he wasn't calling Mike Chang by his first name, so he at least had that small victory, Blaine concluded as he fell back into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, and yes, it'll take a while for them to warm up to each other if you are wondering! I welcome all constructive criticism/comments. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> If you can, try to guess who the poet is! ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The minor characters are more s!1 in characterization to fit the nature of the story. As this is a slow-build fic, it does take a while but there will be some progress! Spoiler warnings for those who haven't seen Wes Anderson's _The Royal Tenenbaums_ yet, and if you do have the chance, give it a try!

{ Intermission II.

It was around 8 in the morning when Mike got a Skype call from his parents. The connection was bad and he could barely see their faces because of the lousy webcam quality on their end but it was alright for Mike. He waved in salutation and greeted them, asked them about their day and they asked about his. His mom was worried about him and demanded to know where he was yesterday night, as she was “sorrowed” to see that he wasn’t online. His father corrected her and said that “sorrow” didn’t really apply and that a simple “sad” was fine. Ah, she had mouthed, sad was what she meant. Mike explained that he had been out with a fellow student and that they had driven around, and there had been absolutely no drinking involved.

“No drugs?” His mother’s warbled voice blurted sharply from his laptop’s speakers.

None whatsoever, he confirmed and she nodded, pleased with the answer. His father returned to the computer screen, setting a small casserole dish down along with some bowls, and his mother got up to assist him, bringing in more food from the connected kitchen that Mike could see behind the bony frame of his father. She opened a mini-fridge and started to slice a radish-like vegetable from what he could determine from the blurry quality.

Mike prepared toast and a bowl of cereal as his father began to describe his day, Mike provided running commentary here and there, such as, “Dad, you taught that punk a lesson right?” when his father retold of an incident he had been caught in today.

It had his father laughing and saying, “Yeah, then I told him if he was going to swear at me in English to do with proper grammar. ‘You fuck’ has a different connotation than when it is switched around. He went to the principal’s in the end.”

The family synchronized perfectly; the food was finished on time that they ate together; Mike had his breakfast of toast, eggs, and cherry tomatoes; and Mr. and Mrs. Chang ate as well, enjoying their seafood _low mein_ and steamed _bok choy_.

“We shouldn’t be keeping you,” Mr. Chang said when Mike finished off the last bauble-like cherry tomato, “you have to get going to school. You sure you are okay? Do you need us to send some money?” His mother put her chopsticks down to mutter that the Laus should have at least contacted Mike but her husband shook his head and said something to her that Mike distinguished over the speakers as “can’t rely on them anymore”. Mike added on by saying that he got texts time to time from Chris, the Laus’ son, and that the family was doing fine as well.

In the end, Mr. Chang again commended Mike for his independence, but instructed Mike to give them a call when he needed help. Mr. Chang knew about his son’s self-sacrificial tendencies and although they were admirable, it was an outdated cultural doctrine; he did not want to put his son through so much. He explicitly told Mike not to do anything unless it was of his own volition with that succinct explanation. Mike remembered how red he had gotten during that Skype session years ago and had ended the call early to wipe at his eyes for a second.

“Just keep up with your studies, we’re rooting for you on your transfer.” His mother added in that she had saved up a lot by managing a food cart with another lady on the weekends.

“Yeah, I should go now,” mentioned Mike when he noted the time. “Good night,” he said respectfully in Mandarin and waved as the screen turned off. There was an unsettled nausea stuck to the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat; Mike hoped that it was the weak webcam quality, but his parents appeared more tired and destitute than the last time he checked in with them. His father was over fifty and his mother pushing the landmark age, and Mike understood that there was no retirement, no stopping of work in their culture because age was but a number. From instances of his scattered memories, he remembered visiting the marketplaces; of colorful stalls heralding basins and buckets of foods, fabrics, and potterware; where the vendors were probably fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers, or perhaps beyond. That thought pervaded in his mind as Mike locked the door to his apartment and took the elevator down to parking.

Mike arrived to Literature right on time and walked into the lecture hall along with the swarm of sophomore students, one of them who Mike identified without any trouble by his confident aura that overcame his stature. Blaine wasn’t walking as much as _cruising_ into the class, with his notes neatly tucked under an arm, while the other arm rested over a messenger bag that hung over his shoulders. The boy was searching around and Mike knew the reason why. Blaine might have spotted it first but Mike was faster, he moved through the crowd and reached it a second before Blaine.

The boy blinked twice, apparently not registering the bag that was not his on top of the desk. A small turn of his neck brought his eyes to meet Mike’s evenly and Mike had to contain a laugh behind a closed fist when the expression of Blaine’s face soured like squeezing a lemon into whole milk. Mike hid his amusement by coughing and leaned on the side of the seat, deliberately not sitting on it.

“I was here first,” was the first thing Blaine said.

“Good morning to you too,” Mike smiled and his eyes scanned down to where Blaine’s foot had taken a step. “I was about to say, if you could be a _tad_ patient, is that I saw that too.” Mike tugged off his backpack from the top of the desk and rolled it over his shoulder. He shrugged when Blaine was staring at him again with a confused look until Blaine hesitantly sat down, continuing to eye him, possibly in wonderment of what was going on. Mike nonchalantly made his way to the stairs and descended one rung lower, casually strolling down the pathway to the desk right in front of Blaine. The seat creaked and the desk shook when all Mike did was place his pencil case on it, and groaned when it had to support Mike’s full weight. Preparing for class, Mike dug out his notebook and texts, arranging his papers neatly into a corner when he heard something strange besides the usual classroom noise.

It wasn’t part of the classroom murmur and it sounded like it was directed at him. The voice was familiar, however the shy tone was not. Did his ears deceive him or did Blaine say that? Mike pivoted around his seat, the wail of the chair adding to the rabble, to see Blaine bent forward over the desk, one hand curved around his mouth like a homemade loudspeaker as he repeated, “Um, good morning...”

But Mike guessed Blaine hadn't meant to say it aloud. Upon being spotted, Blaine snapped back into his chair and opened his notebook, raising the ringed book high to cover his face. Mike gently breathed out his laughter, about to call Blaine out on his more-than-suspicious behavior, but didn’t have the chance and quickly rounded to the front when the professor called for her students’ attention.

 

//

 

“All right, all right, we’re not lingering in poetry much longer, we’re going to have an exam later this week.”

There was a rising squabble in retaliation to her announcement. Ashbury raised a commanding hand and it died like the vestiges of a breeze.

Again with the childish groaning. Ashbury contemplated assigning a report if her students kept this up.

“To remind you all, your poems are to be handed in at the end of the month. Half of the term’s grades are riding on this, so I expect all the stops! Touch your inner wordsmith, my students!”

Ashbury deferred from scolding the student who retold a perverse depiction about “touching their inner wordsmiths” as she already knew the perpetrator was none other than Mr. Puckerman. She marked a tiny dot next to his name on her seating chart and following that, observed the laminated document again. She was absolutely convinced that either Blaine Anderson or Michael Chang Jr. had written the poem, but neither of them had spoken up about it. With Mr. Anderson's implacable voraciousness of winning, and Mr. Chang's likewise intense determination to not lose, Ashbury had predetermined one or the other would have already contacted her about it; she imagined Blaine proudly announcing it to the class, whereas Michael carefully explaining about the note via email. Such imagery turned out false.

The professor drew out the original sticky note from the second drawer in her desk. It was a neon yellow sticky note, the commonplace tool for college students who bought it under the intention of being organized but lost interest in them soon after, leaving the notes to become mere paperweights that collected dust. The paper appeared new, fresh, and the writing was considerably altered to fit the valuable space. Again, she reviewed it, and again, there was a candlelight flicker of warmth nestled around her heart. Ashbury chuckled; this writer reminded her of her late husband, Professor Alton Ashbury. He was the literary analyst and she was the poet, but her husband loved to take a crack at her previous profession.

Alton mentioned innumerable times that she _knew_ words better than he did. Ashbury beamed pleasantly at the memory. Words were her friends and they, his coworkers, he had said. She let her eyes wander around the domed expanse of the lecture hall, languidly scanning the faces of her students.

Mr. Hudson in the front row was chewing his pencil thoroughly—unhygienic, likely a long-term habit—and the girls next to him were chatting about their glossy nails, having a revolting and headache-inducing conversation to which Ashbury spent no more time listening. Ms. Adams by the door had her phone out and her fingers were tap dancing the screen, halting when she beamed at whatever on her phone that caused it, and then going on to renew the cycle. Mr. Puckerman was in the far back, hollering with some mullet-haired fellow, whose name was on the tip of Ashbury's tongue, exclaiming about topics that were light years away from Yeats and Wordsworth.

Her gaze drifted back to the center row, her favorite row if she let known her partialities, where Ms. Pierce was absorbed in the classroom ceiling, and where Mr. Anderson sat, bull’s-eye center, charmingly pleased smirk on his face as he handed Mr. Chang, seated in front of him, a piece of paper. Mr. Chang turned his back to Mr. Anderson, and Professor Ashbury could view his pouty lip come together tight and dismayed, and his troubled eyebrows crest. Mr. Chang’s pen stopped its acrobatics and he caught it a foot away from his desk, sweeping it inward to write, twist in the seat, and pass it over to Mr. Anderson, who smirked and accepted it, no hassle involved.

It aroused her wonderment; Ashbury pinched her glasses just so above her high-bridged nose, her eyesight had been waning but her mind was sharp. Mr. Anderson and Mr. Chang were working together, it seemed.

"Hm," she tilted her head to the chart and the note, and wrinkles lined her forehead as she then mouthed, " _oh._ "

Another conjecture posed in her mind.

 

* * *

{ Act III. So began a patient, gradual metanoia.

Mike Chang liked to write his name, Blaine observed. The M was etched big, flowed into the I and the rest of the letters, and the ending G finished strong. The yellow sticky note in his hand had a direct inquiry:

 

_Hey Blaine,_

_Could you give me your IM name/email? I might want to contact you._

_Thanks,_

_Mike Chang_

Blaine wasn't savvy in the delicate situation of passing notes in class and didn’t know whether or not to talk to Mike outright or write something back to him. As his high school was privately-owned and strictly male, the tough regulations of note-passing in class was never acted upon as the students, who took masculinity unnaturally seriously, had "discussions" in their ultra-covert fight club, which Blaine wasn't supposed to talk about. In fact, even thinking about Dalton Fight Club was discouraged. (What fight club? This was the first he had heard of it.) Therefore Blaine reverted to his previous fascination that was Mike Chang's note.

IM name, IM name... never did he really need to IM anyone in his classes, in freshman year Blaine had a set up working correspondence of emails back and forth with project partners, deleting them ensuing the completion of the assignment. He supposed it couldn't hurt, physically. Mike Chang's ineptitude of the poetic word, now that was mind-numbing and potentially emotionally scarring. The faster he got his rival on the bike, the less he would feel like a douche when he cycled circles around the guy.

Peeling off a yellow sticky note from his dwindling pad, as Blaine was the few who employed the conventionally useful sticky note for its basic purpose, he jotted back a reply in thin handwriting.

 

_Chang,_

_Don't know why you need it, but then again, I don't know how you work, so._

_It's b.anderson@gmail.com._

_Yours truly,_

_Blaine Anderson._

_P. S. I have given you my work email so don't send me junk._

Blaine mentally smacked himself after writing the note. He had his ingrained habit to end his letters with "Yours truly", a practice cultivated by his advisers to sign his name as respectfully as he could. He supposed he could white-it out, or dash a line through it if it bothered him, but he wasn't a fan of white-out (he preferred to get it right the first try) and seldom used it, and to use another sticky note while this one was alright was substantially a wasteful move. Blaine got up to the tips of his toes to lean forward and pat Mike Chang's shoulder. It was obvious what he was doing but in college, no one cared. Mike turned around with a friendly nod. Blaine shrugged off the pleased (and the flicker of surprise, the nerve of Chang for thinking that Blaine would brush off the request) expression, he returned to his seat. Pierce was staring at him, the third time during the past five minutes, and Blaine had notion to flat out ask what was so interesting about him.

"Ooooh," Pierce cooed, hands propping up her face as she grinned knowingly.

"What is it?" He asked her, tired of the waiting game.

"I know about you and Mike!" the girl giggled, all light pink lips and blinding white teeth. She was under the wrong impression, her usual fare, and Blaine was ready to correct her next statement since what she was hinting was way off. He wasn't even friends with Mike Chang. Her hands left her soft, blush-dusted cheeks and clasped together as she exclaimed, "You two are sharing hair gel tips! I read about it in Cosmo a lot, along with the great sex tips. You two should ditch it though, it's gooey-icky and makes you look like you're really old. Mike is okay, but you, Blaine? I want to call you Grandpop. You dress like him too. I think it's your ugly old-man sweaters I see you wearing sometimes.”

Blaine spluttered a nondescript, inaudible _pah._ It was the sole response his brain burped out as it failed to digest the thought-scattering ramblings that was Pierce's characteristic. He balked, "Pierce, we aren't—"

"Oh, Mike's returning your note! Better go check it out, Blaine. Maybe next class, I'll see you with the spiky hair. But I hope Mike doesn't do you; it's gross." Pierce interrupted him brightly, probably not registering that he was talking, or had enough self-imposed bravery to pull it off. Blaine gave up the battle; it wasn't worth it.

He took the note quickly from Mike's hand, flushing at the barest of a smirk gracing his rival's features. Chang's note was this:

 

_Blaine,_

_Thanks, I appreciate it._

_And as for the question, I don't have time today for study hell and the last round kind of tired me out._

_I never imagined myself getting kicked out of the library for being too vocal, heh._

_I'll add you and bug you later, 9 PM?_

_That's usually when you finish your homework, right? Unless you take long._

_Cheers,_

_Mike Chang_

_P.S. I won't send you junk, promise._

_Also, I think this is the first time I've seen someone end a letter (could this be counted as a letter?) with "Yours truly". Classy stuff, Blaine Anderson._

Blaine snorted; he never took long for homework and the "cheers" was ridiculous.

 

_Chang,_

_Don't mention it, it's no problem._

_I'll adapt to $3/hour for online tutoring. See, I'm fair._

_And I admit, I was pretty loud in the library but from scientific observation, it's because of you that we got caught._

_So, if we are going to continue lessons, we need a new location._

_Thoughts? I like places that aren't crowded, good drinks a plus._

_Yours truly,_

_Blaine Anderson._

_P.S. Same goes for your "Cheers". Very cute, Mike Chang._

Mike easily took the note this time and exchanged another shortly.

 

_Blaine,_

_Oh man, so fair. Thank you so much for your graciousness, Blaine. (Sarcasm)_

_I'll still probably take up the offer though; I am still desperate._

_If memory serves me right, you broke first. Hence the heightened alert. You sealed the fate._

_New location decided, there's a teahouse downtown. I remember that you like downtown._

_Cheers,_

_Mike_

_P.S. I'm called incorrigibly adorable for a reason._

Blaine wondered who would ever say that. Adorable, okay that could be a reality, but "incorrigibly adorable"?

 

_Chang,_

_You're welcome. :P (I know what sarcasm is, thanks.)_

_You should know desperation doesn't look good on a man, Chang._

_Teahouse? Is it going to be super Asian with tatami mats and stuff??_

_And yes, I do like downtown._

_Yours truly,_

_Blaine Anderson._

_P.S. Says who?_

Mike Chang laughed quietly when he read Blaine's note and swiped a sticky note from a corner of his desk. His pen twirled once and then Mike was off writing and then it was in Blaine's hands minutes later.

 

_Blaine,_

_It looks good on me. I've been told all moods look good on me._

_"Super Asian", my ass. No, it's more Western-style. And for the record?_

_Asian teahouses are the fucking shit. Best tea comes from Asia, period._

_Cheers,_

_Mike_

_P.S. Says my mom. She is also the person who says all moods look good on me. To be honest, between you and me, I think she has a bias._

Blaine chuckled at that and before he knew it, class was over. He watched as Mike Chang got up, sliding the bag's strap around his shoulder, reaching down to pick up his pencil case. The desk gurgled its last bouts of pain. Blaine abhorred that spot; that desk drove him mad and it was near impossible to focus because of its incessant moaning. Mike Chang must've experienced the same; it was clear as daylight that the seat sucked and the seat behind, with its perfect view of the chalkboard and blessed acoustics that carried the professor's voice just right, was the best.

"Hey, if you change it to two dollars, how I about you take the seat until the end of the poem assignment?" Mike proposed out of nowhere, hands sliding casually into jean pockets.

Blaine blinked, badly imitating a big-eyed owl, trying to catch any hidden angles. Mike was amused by this and smirked, to which Blaine placed his hands on his hips.

"Make it another month after that and you got yourself a deal." Blaine ordered and grinned at last. Mike Chang rolled his eyes, agreeing sullenly.

"You're lucky I'm desperate."

 

* * *

Brittany squeaked in silence at the scene. She took out her phone, smiling broadly as she typed, needing to tell her friend about this juicy fruit of gossip.

**omg wade u wil not beleve dis**

**ugh britt i told u 2 call me unique now!**

**opps sry lol**

**k, what?**

**wat wat**

**what did u want to talk abt?**

**ummm**

Brittany tapped her chin. What was it? Oh, yes, there it was!

**blines a striper lolol ;)**

**wtf he's WHAT?! lol u kid.**

**no no i herd him chating w/ mike**

**$2 an hr or smt lololol**

**britt pls this is blaine we're talkin abt!**

**$10/min lol he's probs expensivo!**

**lolol id pay him tho his tong is hot**

**i bet hes into licking things mmm**

**lol k tell me more deets if u can abt mike & blaine later.**

**i have 2 fin this assn it's kickin my ass lol!**

**haha assn**

**ok c u unique**

**lol later britt.**

 

 

**//**

True to Mike Chang’s word, an alert pinged on the desktop while Blaine was googling “the surefire way to get into ivy schools”. Cimple Instant Messenger’s status box popped up when Blaine opened the program and pronounced that mikechang028@gmail.com added Blaine as a contact, accept or block? Blaine’s mouse pointer clicked on the green ✔ instead of the red ✗ and a new chat screen opened up.

 

**mikechang028: Hey, are you busy?**

Blaine finished his homework hours ago, as Medieval History was a refreshing sea breeze to Blaine and the professor for his science course was an oaf who was lazy in every function and didn’t even assign homework, so he wasn’t busy. He typed back:

 

**me: are my eyes deceiving me or is your username mikechang028, just like your email?**

**mikechang028: Yes, yes it is.**

**me: you couldn’t be creative?**

**mikechang028: What, like yours? What even is that word? Is it made up?**

**me: check the dictionary, it’s inimitably authentic.**

**mikechang028: I did. Noun. Means, “marking with stars”; a word that gives weight or draw attention to the words that follow; related to asterism, a constellation or a starlike figure of light.**

**mikechang028: What does that even mean?**

**me: behold!**

**mikechang028: Yeah, what?**

**me: that’s it. i got your attention and it doesn’t add any meaning.**

**me: it’s like your “hey, are you busy?” the main topic is the “are you busy”. the “hey” is a superfluous attention-grabber.**

**mikechang028: Thanks for the English lesson. That’s all it is?**

**me: yes.**

**mikechang028: Hipster.**

**me: i’m not hipster. i would never let my facial hair grow to the point of an inch-high grass lawn or take photos of my shoes against the pavement with lo-mo filters and upload it onto instagram.**

**mikechang028: I think that last bit is what teenage girls do.**

**me: semantics. at least my username has personality, mikechang028.**

**mikechang028: If the character you were going for is “pretentious hipster intellectual”, then yeah, I guess so.**

**mikechang028: And the reason why I made this username is because it’s easy for my teammates to know who I am. There’s name, number, done.**

**me: all right, enough of that. how can i be of assistance?**

**mikechang028: Tell me what you think about this.**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document1.docx’--**

 

**\--Please be aware that some files might contain viruses. Always be careful when accepting files.--**

 

Blaine skipped CIM's standardized warning to accept the document and had a double-take when he re-read the file's name.

 

**\--you have accepted the file--**

 

**me: i don't know whether or not this is a joke.**

**mikechang028: Why, what's up?**

**me: you named your microsoft word documents as... documents.**

**me: wow, chang. wow.**

**mikechang028: It saves them like that automatically. I thought not to intervene the process.**

**mikechang028: And it's not the document's title that matters, it's the poem. Did you read it yet?**

**mikechang028: I'd appreciate it if you took a look rather than judge my so-called "uncreativeness” in the titling department.**

**me: hmm, doc. 1? finished it already. deleted it from my laptop and then safely removed it from my recycling bin.**

**mikechang028: What?! Blaine, you were supposed to tell me what lines to fix, not delete it like that!**

**me: CIM was warning me of a trojan horse virus.**

**mikechang028: Bullshit.**

**me: no, no, it's true. it told me that i had "downloaded a seriously harmful file that could render my sanity immobile".**

**mikechang028: You're a dick.**

**me: here's you sucking up to a dick.**

**mikechang028: ...**

**me: i'll save you the trouble. "Touche, Anderson. Touche." this sound like you?**

**mikechang028: Shitty impression.**

**me: how so?**

**mikechang028: I don't call you "Anderson" anymore. Unless you like that?**

 

Blaine swallowed thickly as he read over Chang's message. He bit at his bottom lip, brows furrowed. He disliked it.

 

**me: send me the ones you have, i might want to go to bed earlier tonight.**

**mikechang028: ...Sure?**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document2.docx’--**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document3.docx’--**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document4.docx’--**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document5.docx’--**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document6.docx’--**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document7.docx’--**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document8.docx’--**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document9.docx’--**

 

**me: holy shit.**

**mikechang028: Well? What do you think about that? >:D**

**me: quality beats quantity, chang. :P**

**mikechang028: Oh fuck off.**

**me: :P**

He spent an hour reviewing Mike’s boringly titled documents when another alert flashed across his computer’s screen, signaling that Mike Chang had yet another terrible poem.

 

**mikechang028: Alright, I’m going to send another over.**

**me: okay let’s see how your....**

**me: what is this now?**

**me: 8th? 9th? i lost count.**

**mikechang028: …**

**mikechang028: Tenth. Just take a look.**

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document10.docx’--**

**\--you have cancelled the file--**

**mikechang028: Blaine, what the hell.**

**me: :P**

**mikechang028: Don’t you dare “:P” at me. What. What did I do this time.**

**me: i thought you said you were going to be more polite. :P**

**me: i have the evidence on my phone.**

**mikechang028: I swear to God.**

**me: waiting...**

**me: maybe I should log off.**

**mikechang028: No wait**

**me: it’s a tempting thought...**

**me: oh my mouse is moving...**

**mikechang028: Blaine**

**me: seated nicely on this red x here.**

**mikechang028: blaine wait please**

**mikechang028: wait jesus christ**

**me: i prefer blaine as the comparison to the christian faith’s lord and savior is a bit sacrilegious but you have flattered me in a way to quell my urge to click on the x.**

**mikechang028: Could you look over the poem, please.**

**me: i suppose i could.**

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document10.docx’--**

**\--you have cancelled the file--**

**mikechang028: What the fuck?!**

**mikechang028: BLAINE.**

**me: i could. didn’t say that i would. :P**

 

Blaine laughed loudly as his speakers blared over and over with the sound alert for new messages as Mike Chang volleyed a string of curses that finally showed a creative bone in the boy.

“Wo-how, that’s vulgar.” Blaine commented through gasps at a message that capslocked, “YOU SHITFUCKING DICKWAD” and others filtered in. He had enough by the time he had to scroll to get to Mike’s newest message.

 

**me: all right, all right. hahaha, i’m sorry, i was trolling.**

**mikechang028: You’re a piece of shit.**

**me: yes, yes. so send it to me?**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you ‘document10.docx’--**

 

**\--you have accepted the file--**

 

//

 

Frund's upcoming test covered fractions but the second-hand textbook that Mike had found in the $3 bin at his neighborhood bookstore and was currently poring over covered fractals. Mike had meant to be in the advanced mathematics course however the faculty in charge mistook some other guy with a similar student number and initials MC as him. The poor guy had been stuck in "an infinite fractal curve winding through space differently from an ordinary line" whereas Mike peeked from his book to see Puck scratching his mohawk, trying to figure how to divide by zero.

MC, by the time Mike realized the mishap, pleaded to keep the courses the way it was, as it turned out, the extra challenge had boosted his study habits exponentially and as a result the grades from the guy's other classes rose in tandem. Mike wasn't a person who would deny that fortune.

Puck groaned and gritted his teeth. "But, like, _why_ can't you divide by zero? This is stupid." The impatient boy rolled up the sleeves of his navy hoodie to his elbows and flipped his textbook 45 degrees clockwise, physically taking another approach to the question.

"Because dude, it doesn’t work that way. That's what it says in the book and that's fine with me." Finn popped in from the hallway's corner, almost bumbling into a passing girl due to his intrusive build. He apologized to her backside and sheepishly slid his bag against the wall, giving the seated Puck a high-five. "Hey Mike," Finn greeted, and Mike slapped his palm over Finn's outstretched hand, careful of a band-aid that ran from Finn's wrist to his large thumb.

Puck discarded his book with a toss; he was probably tired of staring at an unyielding question. He repeated himself, "Yeah, I know that, but why? You're dividing something by nothing, sure, but there was _something_ in the beginning. Brochang, need your sagely Asian advice, man."

Mike closed his worn textbook and after a moment to organize his thoughts, explained dutifully, "You can't think of it like that, just think of it as a present occurrence like this. Okay, there's me, you, and Finn."

Finn beamed his usual side-grin, happy to be included. Mike returned the favor and went on:

"If there are twelve slices of pizza—"

"Gotta be kosher." Puck strongly asserted. Ever since his magical Hanukkah experience last year, Puck alleged that he had become a "born again jew" and was devout in his religion's teachings... In some select aspects.

Mike amended his statement, "Gotcha, kosher pizza, and we want to have equal amounts of each—"

"You know that ain't happening, you'll give one o' yours to Hudson here since you're nice and he's a pig—"

"Am not, ass—"

Mike stopped their petty rabble by raising his hand straight in front of him, "Hey, cut it out. Don't interrupt me when I'm explaining shit."

Puck chortled raucously, as he had a liking when Mike swore randomly, and held up his arms in surrender. "Alright, Mr. Miyagi, educate me."

Mike firmly nodded. "Easy solution: twelve slices, three hungry men, four slices each." Mike summarized, drawing out the problem in the air with his index finger. Both of his friends agreed with shrugs.

"Yeah... So what happens when there are no pizzas to share amongst us three? We get nothing, zero. And if there are twelve pizzas with no boys? Twelve, you'd think, but no. These are hot pizzas with bubbly cheese perfect when paired with a beer straight from the fridge..."

Finn gulped hungrily.

"Where do they go? They have to go, this problem needs to be solved. We can't keep them so we do what delivery boys do when they mess up an order. We take the pizzas and—"

"Make up a fake address and dump 'em." Puck spoke from experience, "My boss used to check our breaths when we came back from deliveries to smell if we had cheese breath. I'd always eat an anchovy a minute before that." Mike chuckled along with Finn as Puck cursed out Mr. Manneli who, in Puck’s opinion, was a miserly fucker who wasn’t truly Italian.

"Do you remember the addresses?" Mike asked, trying to get Puck back on topic.

"Shit nah, bro. They're fake. Imaginary. Made-up. You can't find those places."

"Same with dividing by zero; it's undefined." finished Mike, rolling his eyes mirthfully at the wide, gaping mouths of his buddies.

Finn blinked slowly, twice, before exclaiming, "You totally blew my mind."

Puck loudly whooped, clapping Mike energetically on the shoulder and yelling, "This guy! This guy is the real OG, Mr. Miyagi, Bruce Lee motherfucker. Man, you _gotta_ come to my party tonight. I got these super-hot Catholic school girls? Fucking sweetest tits." The boy's eyes shone emotionally at the claim, massaging the voluptuous figure of an imaginary girl in front of him. Mike and Finn shared a look while Puck was lost in fantasy. Reflecting on the last Noah Puckerman party, Mike winced.

"I can't go, man." Finn spoke up to everyone's surprise. Mike cocked his head whilst Puck was wearing an outraged expression akin to Caesar. Mike froze when Puck suddenly crowded Finn, Puck's hands hanging on the taller boy's shoulders as they started to jerk Finn back and forth. Puck growled, "Dude, you have a bad chicken sandwich or something because that is not what the Hudsonasaur would do. The Hudsonasaur would go to the Puckasaurus's massively _sick as fuck_ party and _drown_ in pussy with the Changdactyl and Puckasaurus."

Finn was heated red, throwing Puck's grip off as he complained, "I don't want to 'drown in pussy' with you two there, man! That's weird!" Mike silently sided with Finn, drowning in pussy sounded gross. Why couldn't they just treat the girls nice and have a fun time that involved no drunken orgies? Mike's thoughts of just chatting with friends and playing _Scene-It_ were halted as Puck abruptly swore again.

"Fuck, dude, I don't want to see your doughy pasty ass either." Puck retched and shoved Finn jocularly, returning to his seat next to Mike. Finn rocked forward, his face set in an angry pattern.

"I got a cut on my hand when one of your asshole friends broke a beer bottle and tried to shiv me when I was minding my own business!" Cried Finn, lifting his palm to emphasize the thick band-aid covering the healing wound. "I had to tell my mom it was the neighborhood cat and now I'm not allowed to feed Pooty anymore, and it sucks man, she gives me this ashamed glance all the time now. Won't even let me pet her." Finn glumly sighed and crossed his arms. Mike was aware that Finn was downplaying how upset he was, because Finn loved that cat. Mike also knew that the cat in question was Brittany’s cat, Lord Tubbington, but to Finn she was Pooty.

Puck raised his shoulders and arms, hands facing away, his body seemingly saying, "It ain't my problem." He clarified, "I told you, bro, my parties are _intense_. Y'all knew what you were getting into." He ignored Finn's splutter, instead ribbing, "Fine, Hudson has to clean out his vagina, got it. At least my mixologist is gonna be there, right?" Puck nudged Mike's side.

Mike's smile faded and Puck widened his eyes in shock. "Erm... Well..." Mike rubbed the back of his neck. Puck rested a hand over his own chest, injured by Mike's trail off.

"Mike, no! I need you, man. I need those magic fingers that can shake, stir, and get those girls in the mood. Catholic. School. Girls. One of your handsy tricks and it's game over." Puck rubbed his hands together smugly.

Mike glimpsed at his hands, he was pretty good in making drinks, and his finger-circus spins and twirls did have the crowd going... But he had made plans.

"I'm going out tonight," he simply announced, as he didn't have to divulge too much detail. Finn was satisfied and let it be but today Puck was relentless.

"Dude, I knew it. You're blowing me off to tap Pierce. Go ahead if you wanna, but rumor has it that the girl sleeps around."

"So do you, asshole." Mike replied easily. "And it's not Brittany, and it's for studying."

"Bullshit. Studying is for nerds and their King Anderson." retorted Puck, fuming that both of his friends would be missing out.

Mike laughed and patted Puck on the shoulder. "Dude, I'm like honorary nerd. It's Ashbury's poem assignment, I gotta work for it. And the guy whose tutoring me has a strict schedule, man." Blaine had sent him a text before, saying that if Mike was a second late, he would leave. Mike smirked at the memory; Anderson definitely was particular.

Puck seemed to understand the gravity of the assignment. He muttered soberly, "The only person who is smart enough to tutor you is... Fuck, wait..." Mike raised his eyebrows when Puck started whispering to himself, "Moses fucking burning bushes, you're ditching my party for _Lame Anderson_?!" Puck guffawed in disbelief and pulled away from Mike's hand. "Bro, what the hell? _BLAINE ANDERSON_? We all hate the prick." Puck crawled to the opposite wall where Finn had been leaning. Finn chimed in  that Blaine was "kind of a know-it-all douchebag".

Mike expected this; the guys didn't know Blaine like he did. Sure, Anderson was a pain and his ego was well-stroked (by the guy’s own ministrations), but Blaine was nevertheless gifted, bright. Mike rolled his eyes and tried to explain, "I just need his advice—"

"Yeah, in how to take it up the ass." Puck interrupted snidely. Finn flinched and appeared conflicted as Mike and Puck started to argue.

Mike was standing up now, glaring at Puck. There were only a few minutes until lunch ended; the outer hallway to the sciences building, although spacious and mostly empty, was a ways to go to his next class. "He's not _turning_ me gay, Puckerman. Everyone knows that line of reasoning is stupid as fuck. I'm spending the night to study and I'm glad I'm going, I don't want my parents to know why I almost got stabbed in the stomach with a corkscrew." Mike had narrowly dodged a drunken hooligan the last party and Puck looked slightly ashamed under that anger but hid it again.

"I said, they're intense for a _reason_. And you are a dicksucking son of a bitch—" Puck said, getting up.

"Guys, stop—" Finn ambled onto his tripping feet as well.

"You always do this when your mom's away, do you do it so when she comes back she sees that fucking shit? Have some goddamn respect for your mom—"

"You motherfucker—"

"Stop!" Finn yelled, sliding in between Mike and Puck. Puck yelped his disgust of an "all-meat" sandwich and backed off when the bell blared. Mike, his eyes never leaving Puck's, grabbed his bag and books and after a harsh stare, headed to his next class.

"Fine! Go rub dicks with that dipshit!" Puck's holler carried through the empty hallway.

By the time his last class passed, Mike had received one lengthy text from Blaine, outlining on where Mike had to 1) pick him up because his carburetor needed to be replaced, 2) drive to the designated meeting point, and 3) finish quick since his brother was going to pick him up around 6PM. Another text was from Finn, asking if Mike was going to show up or not. It seemed that Finn was somehow corralled into going. Mike texted back, “No.”

Theoretically, Mike could go to Puck's party right after, but the way his friend had acted was seriously _not cool_. As in the esteemed Bro Code, keeping face was one of the imperative lessons handed down by men from generation to generation. Even Mike, who admitted his mistakes with no trouble, adhered to that. Besides, he felt that if he saw Puck's arrogant face, accented by the sheer amount of booze his friend was sure to drink at the party, Mike would not hesitate to rearrange it à la _Karate Kid_.

Discovering Blaine leaning on the awning of the school's entrance, Mike said nothing as the other boy made his way next to him, meeting his walking tempo and wordlessly following Mike to his car. There, Blaine made a face and blatantly showed it. Mike ignored the prickle of aggravation—yes, his car was sort of shitty but it wasn't trash—and unlocked the doors so they both could get away from the cold. It was a mile or more of no conversation until Blaine piped up randomly.

"Where are we going," Blaine asked, bored while watching the changing scenery slow when Mike pulled up to a stop.

"Place downtown, think you'll like it. It's..." Mike pondered for an adequate choice of word. "...it's _cultured_." The light flashed green and Mike's foot pressed down, sending them forward.

Blaine's lips pursed, letting a short, apathetic breath exit his mouth. " _Tch_ , I don't actively go out of my way to look _refined_. I abhor the hedonistic lifestyle."

"Hmm, really?" Mike was puzzled and his voice impertinent as he countered, "hard to believe when you throw in words like 'hedonistic' in normal conversation."

"Hedonistic isn't that bad. At least I didn't say epicurean. Now that would be an overkill."

"Ostentatious words you know there, Blaine."

"Same with you, Chang. All those weeks of SAT Prep have done wonders for you."

"And I'm guessing years for you?"

"No..."

The conversation dropped like that. Mike presumed it was because Blaine wasn't inclined to have him as a conversational partner but upon giving the boy a glimpse, Mike noticed that Blaine was fidgeting, however not noticeably as it was a diminutive movement. Blaine was pressing the tips of his fingers in a light tap as he was thinking. Mike’s mouth slid to the side in wondering what it was.

Regarding in how the rhythmic dance of Blaine's hands stopped when he called out Blaine's name for a response, Mike found his eyes focused on the few white teeth that peeked behind Blaine's mouth that bore into Blaine's bottom lip when the boy’s face tilted to his direction. Blaine held Mike's interest now, and gripped it tighter from a single sigh quickly blowing out of his full lips. Not that Mike was staring, no. He glanced  away to see through the window on his side, seeing that they were getting close to the teahouse.

Clearing his throat, Blaine was ready to explain and Mike lent his ear. "You're probably a bigger nerd than I am, so I won't worry about any judgment as I tell you. You know those vocabulary books? The ones with mnemonic devices and pictures? You had some in high school, I don’t doubt it." Blaine was vocally justifying (to whom Mike had no clue, but later deemed it probably was Blaine's own self) the reason why he was able to share such secret information.

Nodding his head, Mike focused his eyes back on the road, since downtown traffic was hectic during this time in the afternoon, but his thoughts were preoccupied in his memory lane. He had bought handfuls of those language-building books in his junior year of high school to prepare for SAT exams. A few words returned to his mind: Lilliputian, tintinnabulation, exordium. None of them were featured in the exams.

Blaine linked his hands to lay them on his knees, taking a breath. Mike held his own as he watched Blaine professing sincerely, "I bought them in middle school for the sake of... fun, I guess."

Mike paused a little bit, thinking it over, and then laughed hysterically.

"Shut up! I knew I shouldn't have said anything." Blaine crossed his arms and honestly sulked. Like a kid who spilled too much during a Truth or Dare and was being mum for the rest of the night to make up for it. "I am not saying anything to you about anything anymore." There was that sullen mutter Mike was used to, showing that Blaine was re-fortifying his social walls. Mike abated his laughter into chuckles and wiped at his tearing eyes, trying to get a grip so that Blaine wouldn't be moody.

"Aw, come on, Blaine," Mike snuck in through a crack before the walls completely closed, "I'm laughing because it happens to be—what's a smart word for 'charming'?"

Blaine replied without delay, "Winsome." His eyebrows were still furrowed and it reminded Mike of a ruffled-up Miniature German Schnauzer. He was pretty sure Blaine could hear the smile in his voice and coughed quietly to subdue a chuckle.

"Yes, winsome. It's a charming, winsome trait you have—"

"Just shut up and drive, Chang."

Afterward, Mike parked in a cheap lot at the edge of downtown, and set off on a brisk march to the teahouse. Blaine grumbled at the dirty street puddles and walked a feet ahead of Mike, as he didn’t want to walk behind him, only to wait at a corner since he hadn't a clue on where to direct himself. Mike smirked, Blaine being this helpless was a gratifying sight to behold. Leading the other to the left, Mike saw the visible change from outskirts towards town square. Here the shops were less mangy and the pavements tended to, and Mike found the place he was looking for by its clean storefront painted in orange. "This is it," he announced and reached for the gilded handle.

 

//

 

Odors of cinnamon and citronella permeated the air of the High Pekoe Teahouse; the heavy dosage of the scent bombarded his senses when Mike lead him past the entrance; it was a sudden rush that cleared his sinuses, plunged down his breathway, and filled his lungs with spiced lemon. It made such a strong impression that Blaine coughed and forced the smell from his nose, covering his mouth with a hastily drawn handkerchief from his cardigan pocket, filtering inhales as he gradually got used to the scent. However Mike Chang was perfectly fine and could even talk in the seasoned air. He asked a passing waitress who was free for a private room suitable for studying.

The apron-clad girl was pleasant-looking, more elegant than simply pretty, and her wiry dark-brown hair curled into a tidy bun. Every bit of her appearance was clean, from her well-kept natural nails to her plum short-sleeved blouse and olive dress pants, down to her black wedges. The color palette brought up an image of an aubergine in Blaine’s mind. As the server had no name tag, he decided to use the purple tube-like vegetable as her moniker until further notice.

Aubergine’s warmly tanned skin was sunset orange from the teahouse’s drooping chandeliers, to which Blaine inspected in closer detail when the girl left to check—the chandelier’s arms were thick fronds of bronze foliage and its round, bulbous plant heads held a small, glowing fruit. The teahouse felt like a sophisticated jungle, what with the woodsy walls, Victorian furniture, fine painted china tea ware nestled with French pastry tiers, and European accents (mainly British) fluttering from beyond the hall akin to sounds of rainforest animals. Blaine wondered how many of them were actually legitimate.

The girl returned minutes later, her shoes soundless thanks to the russet-toned carpet, and escorted Mike and Blaine along the hallway. Vaguely hotel-like, Blaine passed by doors to his left and right, eyes briefly scanning over brass numbers nailed on the top of each, and let out a breath he was subconsciously holding. Aubergine daintily lifted up a ring of keys from her apron pocket and unlocked the door to 124. She nudged open the door with her palm, and Mike stepped inside first as Blaine let him.

It was intimately designed. As there were no chairs but a square U-shaped bench wrapped around a likewise square table, customers could be as cozy as they wanted to be; several embroidered sitting cushions lined the bench and extra throw cushions propped against the wall of the petite room. The light here was lucent, in a cooler tone of yellow-green from the stained emerald glass, and an incense pouch hung from the door. Bottle green curtains swathed the walls, strings of gold catching the light and shining, and the room smelled of sweet, invigorating mint.

“This room is named ‘Focus’. College students request this room the most, especially during finals week,” Aubergine introduced the room, and Mike already slid inside, resting his forearms on the green linen tablecloth. Blaine scooted in as well, lifting his hands when she leaned to put down two menus. “Hope you two find your concentration! I’ll be with you in a moment.” She grinned and exited, leaving Blaine alone with the other student.

Mike wasn’t paying the menu any attention and got to his books and papers, settling them on the table with no hesitation. Definitely not playing around, Blaine thought, and he opened his menu whilst Mike Chang was browsing his bag for a pen. Blaine had not bothered to set up; he was waiting for his Eureka Moment. Knowing it would come to him, Blaine therefore worried not, biding his time until it struck. Oppositely, Chang was on the verge of snowballing from antsy to grave.

“I’m going with coffee, what are you having?” Blaine asked, creating a bit of small talk in the chafing room to alleviate tension. Mike mumbled back something Blaine barely heard and Blaine didn’t ask for him to repeat. Mike apparently gathered all of his tools and picked out several sheets of paper and stacked them into a pile.

“All right, can you read this?” Mike handed another worn-out lined paper to Blaine’s side of the table. Blaine picked it up and inspected it, scoffing internally at the repetitive title, (draft twenty-seven), and read out loud.

He was shushed immediately by Mike’s flailing about.

“Why are you reading it that loud?!” Mike exclaimed, face reddening, gripping onto the edge of the table as he looked around the empty room.

Blaine raised an eyebrow and dropped the sheet lower to gawk at Chang. “To catch any parts that sound wrong? Here, ‘let moonlight night’s lights brighten my life’? You have to admit that is corny to the ear.”

Mike griped back, fingers pressing lightly over his closed eyes, “I thought the imagery would be nice. I like night skies.”

“So does every other so-called _poet_. You have to try harder, Chang. This is surface stuff you’re scratching.” Blaine reprimanded, shaking his head and sliding the poem back to Mike, who instinctively hid it under a notebook.

“It doesn’t sound too bad,” a voice chimed in, and both Blaine and Mike jumped back in their seat when the waitress popped back in again. Mike was completely embarrassed by then, red to his ears, and mumbled out his thanks whilst he searched for an escape route. However Aubergine was blocking the only way out and Blaine relished in seeing his rival squirm. Blaine thought today had its merits after all. “So, did you decide on what to have?” The girl asked.

“House roast, one sugar cube, no cream.” Blaine stated, giving the girl the menu. Mike requested for a pot of the house tea and Blaine smirked; it was plain-tasting leaf water for the plain-thinking boy. Aubergine nodded and took the menus and left once more.

Another rolling wave of silence washed over the room and Blaine threaded his hands together and watched the way Mike Chang’s leg shook minutely under the table. Blaine sighed, irascible from the quietness and the lack of action.

“You going to say somet—” Blaine started but at the same time the other had spoken up. Blaine grumbled and gave the sign for Mike to go on.

“I w-was going to say, what would you write about? Your poem.” Mike murmured shyly.

What would Blaine write about? It scarcely was an arduous challenge.

“A log cabin,” announced Blaine smugly.

Mike Chang had a disillusioned look and any admiration (if he showed any) for Blaine’s universally known talent diminished with a single deadpan, “Swell. A log cabin.” Blaine sighed; Mike Chang definitely had to be re-educated about the logistics of literary criticism. Blaine clapped his hands together as the gears warmed up in his head, and a second later, his mind whirred to life as he cleared his throat.

Blaine began, “It is a truth without doubt that even the most mundane of subjects, such as a speck of dust on the floor, can be metamorphosed to the depth of subspace by power of poetry. One example is Atwood’s ‘This Is Not A Photograph’ evokes an imagery of the despondent speaker, the depressing themes lingering in the shadows, and hints of a past that will never be explicated. All these missing information helps the poem. Why?”

As Mike Chang was about to answer, Blaine held up a hand to halt him. Mike honestly glared and Blaine smirked as he vividly elucidated with grandiose motion, “Because it’s poetry and people live to overanalyze. Things like dull, ordinary dust is acutely irreplaceable and one-of-a-kind special. You could title your poem ‘Dust’ and not speak of it at all in the actual poem, and readers would have to analyze _why_ you didn’t speak of it all in the actual poem. Poetry is the conman of literature. It can steal possibly any meaning, but _how_ it cons makes or breaks the illusion. It has to evoke feeling.”

At this Mike Chang nodded and Blaine felt that his exposition had gotten through to Mike’s head.

“So love poems would be the best?” Mike had a hesitant smile of a student raising his hand in class for the first time.

“Hahaha, no.” Blaine shot it down so fast like a sniper and reloaded with, “I was about to continue on that love poems are the _worst_.”     

“Why?” Chang fired back argumentatively, surprising Blaine, as his meekness was cast aside for a second’s worth before sitting back down on his seat when there was a knock on the door. He glanced at Blaine and quickly opened it, stepping back as Aubergine brought in a trolley. She first set a wire caddy with a canister on the center of the disheveled table, mindful of the strewn papers and texts. Chang was staring at him whilst Aubergine was in midst of plunking a sugar cube into his coffee. Blaine held his gaze steady, watching back unwaveringly until she had said something that Blaine must have missed, as Mike Chang broke their eye contact and shook his head.

“Nothing for you to eat too?” The girl whirled to him and Blaine said he was fine.

“Could we have the bill please?” asked Mike, “we’re going to be leaving soon.” Blaine huffed and crossed his arms; he had an hour left until his brother was supposed to pick him up and Chang was playing the passive-aggressive game.

Aubergine nodded at that and sharply left. Blaine thought she high-tailed it out of the room.

Disregarding Mike Chang for a moment, Blaine sniffed at his coffee, and the nice, caffeine-y, “you-can-make-it-through-the-day” aroma had him smile as he sipped at it. The hot drink tasted better than it smelled, which in coffee was a find Blaine fondly enjoyed. Such simple pleasures made life worth it.

The other boy interrupted his caffeine-induced delight by saying, “Love poems aren’t stupid.”

Blaine swallowed down the robust drink and reluctantly lowered his cup back onto the saucer. Mike Chang was cross: arms, legs, mood. His dark brown eyes pierced the space between them. Holding his posture upright, Mike said nothing as the lighting illuminated tense muscles, reminding Blaine of his rival’s physicality. Thinking about it, Mike Chang probably exercised daily. When was the last time Blaine went to the gym? Right, Blaine thought, senior year in high school, for boxing. If he had Mike Chang as an opponent, there would be a knockout in seconds.

Picking his words carefully, he answered, “No, they’re not, I guess. But they are the worst, especially if they are handled incorrectly.” Blaine was adamant in his preceding assertion.

“What about the one we read in class?” Mike presented as his defense.

What about it? Blaine wanted to say that it was incredible, that if he could grasp at the emotion in the poem, so intricately woven in like a pattern on a tapestry, it would be like tearing out strings and ruining the overall display. It was written perfectly and could not be emulated. Had the writing meant anything to him? No. Conning worked when it played upon the feelings of the victim.

“I think,” Blaine halfheartedly confessed, “that it took everyone in the class for a fool and swindled them.”

“So you’re admitting that I’m right.” Blaine glanced away from that happy brightness, a glowing, that seemed to be coming from Mike Chang himself.

“One exception in the norm doesn’t revolutionize the world, Mike Chang.” Blaine muttered into his coffee. He had to drink it before it got cold and bitter.

Mike lost that glow instantly. He replied, “I’m kind of disappointed in you, Blaine Anderson. Here I thought that you’d believe in change.”

Blaine let the words sink inside him, a frozen heavy stone that didn’t warm up no matter how many sips of coffee he had.

When he got home, Blaine tried his best not to let Mike Chang get to him, and lucky for him Rachel had sent him a text that night. Blaine was glad to finally have company he enjoyed for once and excused himself from Cooper’s dinner of mac n’ cheese topped with bacon bits. Cooper again teased Blaine about his “leading lady” and Blaine shrugged it off and went to his room to see Rachel’s greeting.

 

**Rachel:**

***Blaine, you busy tonight? I want to chaaatt. :3***

**rachel! i'm glad you sent me a text, i had a boring night so far.**

 

To his good fortune, Rachel wasn’t MIA from her phone and promptly returned with:

 

***Oh? What did you do?***

**study with some annoying guy in class. :/**

***Ewww. Peer projects suck! I know that feeling, Blaine.***

***There are so many back-up singers who I personally think and KNOW sing off-key and it throws the entire group off! I keep telling the director to get rid of this girl named Sunshine but I think he thinks we're more 'culturally diverse' if we have her! It's extraordinary roll-my-eyes moment, Blaine. :/***

**i don't think that's the same thing...**

***Oh, okay.***

**first of all, he asked me to be his tutor, which is weird.**

***Why? You're intelligent! <3***

**true. ;)**

**however it's because he's not so bad himself.**

***OH??***

***Pardon my oh’s, I'm honestly intrigued. :O***

**yes, he's quite... intriguing? to say the least.  
**

**he's more or less the only challenger in lit class. he's a pain since he's so doggedly adamant that he proves his points.**

***Teehee. :P***

**what?**

***Blaine, you know he sounds like you a little bit, right?? :P***

**no he doens't.**

**doesn't****

***My, my, that's a fast remark isn't it, Mr. Anderson? <3***

**let's change topic, please.**

***No, no, come on! This is fun! I wanna hear more about him, pleeeease? :D***

**why? he's dull.**

***Fiiiine, I'll leave it alone if you at least tell me his name.***

**i don't want to sully your phone with his full name. it's chang.**

***For today, that is!***

**damnit.**

***Janet! :DD***

**rachellll... >:|**

**as much as i appreciate the rocky horror picture show reference...**

**you didn't text that on purpose until i texted his name, didn't you? >:(**

***Teehee! ;D***

**you are lucky you are located in new york right now.**

***Speaking of which, Blaine Anderson get here immediately! The guy I told you about is waiting~ I told him about you! ;)***

**um, you did? what did he say? :0**

***He said you must be an incredible person since I was speaking so highly of you. I vouched for you! He's SO CUTE, in that cute gay way, you know? You guys are gonna be so CUTE together! Eeee! <333***

**hahaha, alright enough of that, rachel. i told you, i'm more focused on getting my transfer first.**

**...and don't you have a recital to practice for?**

***OHMYGOSH YOU'RE RIGHT!***

***Gotta go! Bye, Blaine! Show that Chang what for! You're an Anderson!***

 

Blaine felt his shoulders sag at the last text. Rachel was right; Blaine was an Anderson. He had to focus.

 

//

 

It was Monday. There were three more weeks until the project was due and Mike was on his thirty-ninth draft, seventeenth document, and zero final poem assignment. In a given day of 24 hours, or if Mike was going to simplify it, 1,440 minutes, or if he felt like being extremely technical, 86,400 seconds, Mike had nothing to professionally show for his time. The 24 different letters of the English alphabet arranged into a collection of words and then bound into anthologies of stanzas that equaled one single poem was naught to be found. Goddamnit, this assignment was his personal nightmare. The looming dread of half the entire semester's grade lingered in the back of his mind like a pendulum of death.

Now reminded of his current situation, Mike sagged into his seat, which in turn bellowed at the unwanted pressure. Blaine had been touchy since last Friday at the teahouse and Mike felt guilty as well as frustrated. He admitted that he had been harsh, but Anderson was ornery as Mike had presumed since the beginning of the school semester, and getting to know him was like reaching out to touch a rose and being stabbed by its thorns. However in the case of befriending Anderson, after finally avoiding its thorns to smell the flower, it contained a bee inside. His metaphorical nose had been stung way too many times by his foolish sniffing around. Maybe it was better not to get close to Blaine.

The only upside was his syntax had grown marvelously in the week and Mike noticed his thought-process was digging into the stores of theatrics. Mike wondered if Blaine was rubbing off on him.

The classroom conversations was not vocal about poetry, like as always, and Mike chanced a glance behind him during the chaos. Puck was purposely ignoring him, Pierce was painting her nails, and Blaine was peering over his notebook, mouthing something to himself and then writing. Mike figured it was dumb to stare blankly at the studying student and pivoted to the front; Blaine wasn't making time for him anymore. He wasn't disappointed, he told himself and forced himself to believe it.

For the most part, Mike assumed that whatever they were doing reached its apex and was winding down to dissipate. Blaine and he were done their ceasefire, and Mike wanted to curry no more favors from his classroom rival. Mike needed a different plan for a scholarship now, and his mind went to listing the available options for him when Professor Ashbury clamored, "Students! Students, your poetry exam results were par. Not exactly birdie, hoho." She laughed at her own golf joke, something Mike picked up as his father loved golf.

"Quick classroom debate!" The professor clapped her hands to get the room's attention and queried, "Can someone offer me a reasonable thematic analysis of Poe's ‘A Dream Within A Dream’—ah, Mr. Anderson."

Mike's fingers twitched over the smooth gummy grip of his pen. Everyone wasn't paying attention except for Blaine, who took in a sharp breath like he always did before he started on his similarly truncated, yet poignant arguments. Blaine's words carried through the spacious lecture hall, silencing the boisterous class.

"Poe's ‘A Dream Within A Dream’ has a depressing theme: whether in abstract space confined to our minds or in the physical reality of life, we are predestined to lose everything we hold dear."

It got everyone's attention piqued and Mike felt a smile curl up his mouth when he could hear the prideful, powerful tone in Blaine's speech. One thing Mike had learned (or proven via keen observation) was that Blaine loved attention and the rapt awed noises from an impressed audience.

"However in dreams, we are allowed a certain sense of freedom which often restrains us in the physical plane. We can become whomever we want, can have whatever we want. Our dream-scape lives reflect our true selves, I believe. Yet it is but a dream. It is imaginary and fated to disappear from our conscious, same as our conscious will disappear from us when we leave the physical plane."

Mike heard someone whisper, "Shit, that's heavy stuff." Blaine was in his element and wasn't stopping.

"This is the reason why I believe 'A Dream Within A Dream' is the acceptance of the inevitable and to live without regrets, you should not make a dream into a reality. We shouldn't bob on the 'pitiless waves' of time, to ebb away our youth and strength while we despair on what could have been, we shouldn't hold on to anyone else, either. Life is sporadic, randomized playing of loaded dice and we, the players, have our limits."

Mike raised a brow and tapped his pen quietly against his paper; that sounded awry to him.

"The speaker holds grains of golden sand and tries to hold them as tightly as possible but laments when in the end, his hold is still too loose despite his trying his hardest—the dream is nothing, life is the same. Man is mortal and in essence, weak. Happiness is brief, sadness unavoidable. It's for us to be prepared, no fantasizing, no disappointments from hype."

Wrong, Mike thought. He struck his hand up in objection and there was a verbal falter as Blaine was finishing up his explanation, "Ah, um, the poem illuminates the awareness that each plane of the mind is inherently linked by the i-infallibility that all things must come to an end."

Before Ashbury had announced his name and provided the signal for Mike to start, he had already blurted out, "Wrong, that's wrong."

"Excuse me?" Blaine's tone was furious and the pause after it combative.

Mike bravely continued, "Sure, life is short compared to the length of every other living thing—"

"Obviously—" interrupted Blaine, who was not letting Mike get away from insulting him in class.

"But nothing has to end! That's the reason why the speaker's so—so upset about this. His love died, his torment and grief is crashing all around him like the seas and he's caving in."

"Because, like I explained, death is ubiquitous—"

"But it isn't. Death isn't ubiquitous if we see the timeline differently, events that had transpired won't be gone forever due to time passing, the feelings we feel or share with someone doesn't lose meaning because we've died!"

Mike realized he was practically yelling by now and the whispers between students were abandoned. Professor Ashbury's expression was unreadable save for an arched brow that demanded a follow through. All ears craned for him. Mike imagined hearing the fast, impassioned heartbeats coming from his rival behind him, waiting.

"The speaker's far gone from the loss, this is his mind's plaintive cry as he desperately tries to hold on to his memories. In his memories, he finds solace, in his memories he can revisit her again and in turn, his present self feels love again. When he wakes up from this knowledge that it was all a daydream, that's when he hits a berserk and desires nothing but his love and is anguished when she's not with him in physical life. It's not the acceptance that she's gone, like it’s ‘ah such is life.’ It's the fight in not forgetting her. She's not a grain in the countless sand, she's his most important love, that’s why he’s holding on to her so tight."

Blaine let out an affronted laugh. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"To me, this poem is a lover's despairing transcript to whomever's listening of Time's ephemeral, fleeting nature in reality but in dreams, it's constant. The speaker and his love, when they pass on, that memory of them, their love, it's lost to time and in that moment, it's forever theirs."

"You’re so—"

"Same with anyone else who's ever dreamt of something or wanted to be something so bad it hurts. By really looking into ourselves, our desires, goals, ambitions, and achievements we could map out the realm of what we’re made of, what makes us, intangibly us in pure idea. Even at the face of utter disappointment, resentment, failure and even death, we won't shy away and admit defeat but we will fight it."

Blaine never finished his sentence. Mike was standing up by now and again, hazarded to turn around and see that Blaine appeared miserable beyond relief; Mike forgot how to swallow and was stuck with an ache in his throat and lungs. He barely registered the thunderous applause and a "that's my boy" from someone. All he could do was see Blaine's stricken face morph into one of spite.

Ashbury calmed the class down at last, ruler whapping the board, and cleared her throat. "As much as your explanation was _staggering_ , Mr Chang... Mr. Anderson's reasoning holds truer to the poem. Poe was severely depressed when he penned that poem, Mr. Chang. I am sure that he would not have the spirit to arms."

"See?" Blaine belligerently echoed, " _You're_ the one who's wrong. Our memories wash away with age and if no one remembers it, was it even an event that had happened? If everyone forgets about something, it’ll be argued that it never existed. God, you _do_ suck at poetry, Chang."

Mike wanted to argue. He wanted to fling back at Blaine, retaliate with something personal but sighed. Twisting in his chair so that Blaine could see his truthful expression, he said, "You're right." The wide-eyed look of surprise from the other student didn't bother him, Mike felt too numb. His explanation had been one way too emotionally invested and hearing it rejected actually hurt.

As he had next quickly rounded in his seat so that he could stare at his blank piece of paper to force away the shame of his mistake, Mike missed the way Blaine softened and whispered, "Not where it counts."

* * *

He had been staring at Mike Chang's username for over ten minutes. His mouse was hovering on the name and CIM's automated prompts kept on pinging that someone else was messaging him but Blaine hadn't bothered to check. It was late at night and Blaine neglected his dinner, his throat full from nausea since the lit class. Mike Chang had been defeated. His rival said it himself that Blaine was right. This was the end; Blaine was relieved of his duty to carry Mike's grade and everything would go back to the way it was. He should go to bed and sleep for tomorrow.

Instead of that rational option, Blaine clicked on the prompt to start a chat with Mike Chang.

 

**me: hey.**

**mikechang028: Oh. Hey. What is it? You never contact me.**

**me: checking up with you to see how your poems are going. got anything new?**

**mikechang028: Yeah. But it's okay, I don't need your help anymore.**

**me: oh.**

**mikechang028: Yep. Thanks for the pointers though, but I don't want to steal your log cabin idea. I've never spent time in one but I did go camping.**

**me: me neither. :P**

**mikechang028: You're probably going to write it well despite the inexperience.**

**me: i've never been camping, either. not an anderson family thing to do.**

**mikechang028: Spend summers at yacht clubs?**

**me: while aggressively ignoring the clubbers, yes.**

**mikechang028: Sorry about your sucky summers.**

**me: no need to say sorry.**

 

Mike Chang had no reply to that and a few minutes passed as the well of conversation dried up. Blaine tapped his foot impatiently, straining to come up with a droll topic but all he could think of was the weather.

 

**me: so the weather's bad lately.**

**mikechang028: Yeah, I have to heat up my car for a while before I leave for school.**

**me: it must take you forever since it's old.**

**mikechang028: Yep.**

 

Another minute went by with nothing. God, this was aggravating.

 

**me: i am working on a project in which i have to tutor someone so i need you to send me your poem right now.**

**mikechang028: Shitty lie.**

**me: fuck. yes, that was bad. ugh.**

**mikechang028: Can't you say sorry?**

**me: yes, i can. it's just, i don't have anything to be apologetic for, ashbury said i was technically correct.**

**mikechang028: Do you ever hear yourself?**

**me: yes, i enjoy the sound of my voice.**

**mikechang028: Thought you of the type. Anyway, fine. Don't say sorry. I'm also going to go. I have other stuff I have to study for.**

**me: now that's bullshit. you're one the smartest people i know. it's about 10 PM, you're half-way done everything, and you're stuck on this one lit project.**

**me: you're on document 17 and you have one line done but your attention is wavering. you only recently finished an article on google news before talking to me.**

**mikechang028: And now I'm going to stop talking to you. And it's document 19, ass. You're a dick, you know that?**

**me: you're right.**

**mikechang028: ...? I think I stepped into bizarro world here. A suspicious part of me is saying, “Lol Blaine.”**

**me: no, no, you're correct, i am a dick. and you're the bigger man here and i need you as much as you need me. i'm having life-changing revelations because of you.**

**mikechang028: ...thanks?**

**me: yeah, i was wrong today. the way i acted was reprehensible. i shouldn't have treated you like that.**

**mikechang028: Well, since you're kind of apologizing... I forgive you, man. Water under the bridge, okay?**

**me: okay. :)**

**me: thanks, mike chang. you're a good guy.**

**mikechang028: :P Duh. All right, it’s business time. I'll send you something.**

**me: ready when you are! :P**

**mikechang028: i actually wrote it on an online writing tool so i'll send you a link.**

**me: okay.**

**mikechang028: http://bit.ly.com/33422082/1221**

 

Blaine clicked on the link and a new window popped up. He had mere seconds before his brain recognized what it was but it was regrettably too late.

 

**me: MOTHERFUCK!**

**me: YOU ASSHOLE!**

**mikechang028: HAHAHAHA!**

**me: that shit startled me! and it's nighttime and my laptop speakers were on maximum! jesus christ, i almost had a heart attack!**

**mikechang028: I can't believe you clicked on it without hovering to check the redirect URL, oh man hahaha!**

**me: you're a prick. you're a fucking prick. my ears are ringing and that satanic looking whatever-the-everlasting-fuck-it-is will haunt my dreams tonight. fuck you, mike chang.**

**mikechang028: Hey, you called me Mike Chang now! I feel like we've reached a landmark.**

**me: i will end you.**

**mikechang028: Mmhmm.**

 

**\--mikechang028 has sent you 'document19.docx'--**

 

**\--Please be aware that some files might contain viruses. Always be careful when accepting files.--**

 

**\--you have accepted the file--**

 

//

 

Another scenario Mike had not pictured in his mind was being invited to Blaine's house and seeing where Blaine lived. As the library had banned them and the teahouse had placed a "do not serve" sign in the lobby (as Mike and Blaine went into a shouting match on their way to the front), Blaine had suggested his place for a study session during the weekend. Mike's mind had already committed the road he had taken prior and he arrived to the modest townhouse ahead of schedule.

Knocking on the door, Mike expected Blaine to usher him inside but was face-to-face with a different man, who smiled broadly and already had an arm around Mike's shoulder and yanked him in. "Hey, squirt, your friend's here!" The guy yelled and Mike's intuition informed him that the arm belonged to Blaine's older brother. In the brief seconds he had, Mike scrutinized the older Anderson brother, and unlike Blaine's warm coppery eyes, the older brother's were cool and blazing, like a blue gas flame. The laugh lines meant the brother was jovial, if not the clown in school, but the deep wrinkles etched on his forehead meant he had seen hardship. That was all Mike could postulate for the time being as Blaine was downstairs and took a hold of his arm and pulled him away from the older brother's hold.

"Jeez, Cooper, don't use my friends as an armrest." Blaine complained, his fingers digging into Mike's bicep. Cooper laughed, like Mike had predicted, and grinned bigger.

Cooper threw his teases back as he flicked his bangs from his eyes, "Squirt, only you best provide the support my weak elbows need." Mike smirked when he noticed Blaine was pouting and mumbling things like, "I'm going to be taller than you someday."

Blaine, apparently not in the mood to play around with his brother, placed his hands on his hips, earnestly announcing, "Sure, sure. Um, I'm going upstairs with my friend so don't disturb us. We have to study." Blaine already headed to go upstairs and Mike smiled nervously at the weird look Cooper was giving him, it was half-speculative and half-judgmental. It was as if Cooper was gauging how much of a threat Mike was, the same furtive glare that parents of his previous girlfriends used to give him when Mike took their daughters out on a date. Uncomfortable at the attention, Mike jogged behind Blaine to the boy's bedroom.

Expecting an orderly and dull room filled with books and stuffy librarian dust in the making, Mike was surprised at the airiness of Blaine's bedroom, at the normal music posters (though Blaine's were musical posters, not of bands), display cabinet, bed, and schoolwork mess that made Blaine's table turn on the "no vacancy" neon sign. It was utterly commonplace teenager that Mike smiled to himself; he assumed Blaine's lifestyle was as fastidious as the mannerisms Blaine held in lit class. Even Blaine was dressed more casually for the weekend; his collared white dress shirts and bow tie replaced with a v-neck striped top and a brown-red wool cardigan. Blaine still wore those ridiculously tight jean capris though.

The boy sat on his ergonomic office-oriented chair and gestured for Mike to sit wherever and to use whichever resource Blaine had. Mike wasn't a person who got caught up wanting to know more about a person, as his approach was to be comfortable, not clingy, but couldn't curb his curiosity when his eyes lined up to the display cabinet. Immediately he made his way to it and peered through the glass doors. There were three shelves, the top held Blaine's elementary school medals along with an extensive mini dealership of model cars, the middle all of Blaine's middle school acknowledgements, and the last Mike guessed high school which was empty, save for one solid gold plaque. At the head of the display cabinet, there were three trophies for a curricular of Blaine's Mike never would have figured: show choir.

"You sing?" Mike asked and heard Blaine shuffling over.

"Ah yes I do; I see you are going through my accomplishments... and my car collection." Blaine chuckled and sat at the edge of his bed, on the side where the display was.

"And you collect model cars. Hmm, never would have guessed." Mike took a closer look through the glass, at each perfectly painted car. They looked like the original thing and his eye stayed at a '67 Chevy Impala.

"Oh, used to. Used to. My father had the big ones and I had little ones. I prefer little ones anyway." Blaine was mumbling offhandedly and offered to describe each rung, as Mike wanted to know. Carefully, Blaine lifted a latch to open the display case and pointed them out, "First row, pre-middle school era: perfect attendance, science fair blue ribbon, honorary valedictorian, et cetera awards in music."

Mike was worried that the uppermost shelf would collapse and intently kept his hands affixed to his sides.

"Second row, middle school: regional spelling bee, perfect attendance, fencing: class épée, music certificates, various volunteer and community service medallions from all these programs my mom had signed me up for...” Blaine’s voice went soft and Mike didn’t comment, Blaine’s eyes were aspectabund, showing emotion that required no asking of what happened. Blaine hesitated for a breath to take and sped through the last part.

“Senior year, Author’s Accolade.” The single gold plaque had Blaine Anderson inscribed in loopy cursive, as well as the year and the title, _All The Words Not To Say_. It was issued from Dalton Academy, and the Ohio Literature Critics Board. Dalton Academy... it was private school that Mike was aware of. One of the most esteemed and pricy schools for learning, they were also famous for their connections with the uppers of Ohioan society. Blaine stared at the last row for a while before he stood up to look over the trophies on the top.

A smile lit Blaine up, incalescent like a firework, “Copies of the trophies the Dalton Academy Warblers won. We weren’t huge in the show choir circuit though, we’d get beaten by Vocal Adrenaline at Nationals, but I don’t care, it was about performance for me—did you know that I was the Head Warbler?”

“Congratulations,” Mike said. Blaine as a leader fit like a glove to a hand.

Blaine’s hands grasped behind his back as he wiggled on the balls of his feet with a joyous little beam of whimsy. A moment later, Blaine blushed and dropped his hands as well as his gaze. “A-anyway, I sing with my former teammates sometimes, the ones who are left in Lima, I mean...”

“Can you sing for me right now?” Mike hadn’t realized _he_ was the one who said it until Blaine uncomfortably darted his eyes away. “Oh, um, if you don’t want to, it’s okay.” Mike amended his request, feeling stupid for talking without thinking. He rarely acted this way and felt a creep of embarrassment.

Blaine waved his hands in Mike’s face, his face scrunched in a big grin, “Maybe I’ll invite you to our Warbler gatherings. I sound better a cappella with my friends.” Blaine hummed a short tune for Mike, and Mike politely clapped afterwards. Blaine was a terrific singer even in whispers.

After an hour of lounging around in Blaine’s room reciting poems and looking up words in Blaine’s vocabulary book collections, Mike stretched from his position on the floor, watching as Blaine was crooning the lyrical styling of Roxy Music (to himself when he thought Mike was entirely engrossed in using his poetic caesuras strategically) when his stomach grumbled its discomfort. Blaine’s orotund singing stopped and was replaced by a hearty chuckle. “Hungry?”

“Shut up, no.” Mike flushed and tapped at his stomach in efforts to quieten the gurgles.

“You shut up, and let’s go downstairs to eat. I don’t like the smell of food in the place where I sleep.” Mike’s excuse was staved off by another noisy roar from his traitorous body and he surrendered, submitting to Blaine and following him downstairs.

Compared to the simple decorations of Blaine’s room and most of the rooms of the second floor, when Mike fully surveyed the ground floor, the only word Mike could come up with was: devil-may-care. Paintings, rugs, statuettes and other garishly expensive things lined the walls and Mike tried his best not to stare at a grand family portrait.

Mike was seated in a plush dining room, a carbon copy of a Michelin restaurant, and quizzically observed a set of candelabras. Blaine had excused himself to the kitchen and had left Mike alone to pose questions such as if Blaine and Cooper lived by themselves, how could they afford such things? And candelabras, really, when they had working electric lights? His questions were paused when Blaine returned with two plates of pasta and sniffed dismissively at the candelabras, pushing it to the far edge of the table.

“Ugh, my brother’s a shopaholic with the worst taste. For your information, I’m not as reckless with money as he is.” Blaine sighed and dug into his pasta, giving Mike the signal to eat as well. Pasta wasn’t his thing since his place lacked decent kitchenware so he gave the noodle a tentative chew.

Mike was surprised by how tasty it was and dug in, his stomach sated for once. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw Blaine smiling at him as he proudly declared it was his own handiwork. He chewed thoughtfully as Blaine went into small talk which listed all the unnecessary purchases Cooper had made this week: glow-in-the-dark paint, an iguana, a box for the iguana to send it to Anaheim, a tapestry of a dragon, Big League Chew... Blaine grumpily asserted that his brother thought money of a game. Speaking of which, Blaine’s older brother had been missing for a while and when Mike posed the question, Blaine deadpanned that it was natural of Cooper to disappear at times. Mike would have laughed but it felt unwholesome.

He switched topics, asking Blaine about the Author Accolade and that he was sincerely interested in reading the story Blaine had written. Blaine shook his head, claiming embarrassment, and looked much less stressed. They continued the rest of the dinner discussing about food and literature.

 

//

 

Mike Chang helped with the dishes and went home after dinner, telling Blaine at the door that it was one of best dinners he’d had in a while, causing Blaine’s cheeks to tint pink. The main reason was because Blaine wasn’t used to compliments. Blaine teased back and said it was a simple homemade Italian meal and pushed at Mike Chang’s arm as he bid farewell, wondering to himself what food the boy normally ate.

Distracted by thoughts of vegetables and cold cut meats—Mike had disclosed over their dinner that the apartment he had offered only a hot plate, no stove—Blaine bumped into Cooper, who had finally shown up since the afternoon. His older brother was tensely pacing like a caged animal, treading and circling around the living room, the grip on his cell phone stiff. Blaine opened his mouth to ask but Cooper stuck a hand up and Blaine closed it, miffed to be so curtly silenced.

“You can’t be serious, man.” Cooper argued to the other line. Blaine mouthed at his older brother to divulge the identity of the speaker. Blaine was getting that anxious throbbing in his chest; he detested not knowing, to him it was worse than knowing too much. Cooper mouthed back irately that it was Jones.

Oh, it was _Jones_.

Blaine’s eyebrows furrowed and he leaned on the side of the wall, shoving his hands into his cardigan pockets to calm their fiddling. Jones, attorney at the Law Offices of Bauch, Gregor, & Jones, was the son of the one of the founders. He was the third Jones son who went into law and worked at the firm as it was an absolute must that there be one generation of Jones active at Bauch, Gregor, & Jones. This Jones happened to be Cooper’s personal lawyer. He was also the one who was pitiably heeding Cooper’s uproarious tirade.

“Well, tell Phil to knock it off, I’m not ready to discuss that with him yet—goddamnit, he’s a bloodsucking leech—and I want to press charges against Dick, I saw his red Ferrari making rounds around our house, isn’t that like stalking? What, it’s _not_? Jones, come on, I have a kid brother and those guys are predators—what do you mean I _can’t_ call them that, you should see their eyes around Blaine, it’s like fucking Kaa in the damned _Jungle Book_ , and I’m Baloo, man!”

Blaine breathed in deeply and constricted his throat to hoard the air. So, it was about _them_. His fingers brushed against downy lint in the edge of his pockets and Blaine stroked at it, as his pent up energy needed a form of release. Cooper’s hand ran through his hair several times, eyes boring a hole through the ceiling, muttering as Jones was probably explaining some legal shenanigans that Blaine wanted nothing to do with.

His older brother retorted through gritted teeth, “I don’t _care_ about that, I said I need some time to think about it and no, they are not going to talk to Blaine, he’s busy. Oh. Oh, really? _Really_. That document doesn’t hold water in court and they know it, he was way too young when the—oh, that’s _so_ Phil. Son of a bitch—actually no, disregard that, she was fucking ace; he’s the bitch.” Cooper smirked wryly and picked up a hand-painted tribal vase and placed it back down again a second later. Blaine’s eyes dropped to the floor and his head began to ache with each step Cooper took.

“You know what, Jones? I’m way too pissed to talk to you right now, I don’t want our friendship to turn sour but if I have to hear another minute of this shit I probably will call you something that’ll have you hate me forever so I’ll lunch you tomorrow. Okay? _Lunch it_. Bye.”

Cooper jabbed the end button on his phone and chucked it onto the couch where he then crashed into the seats. Blaine watched the figurative burn site of Cooper’s limbs sticking out in all directions. His older brother was groaning into a cushion asking God why people sucked ass. Blaine’s lips quirked at that, Cooper was lightening up the atmosphere somewhat.

Blaine sat on the armrest of the couch, avoiding Cooper’s stretched arms as he, after a moment to think, softly implored, “Are you going to take the offer?”

“I don’t fucking know, Squirt.” was the muffled reply from the back of Cooper’s head. Blaine sighed and his temples burned with an oncoming migraine. Telling his brother he was going to bed, Blaine looked at his brother, who waved him off, head buried.

By the time he was ready for bed, Blaine was dead tired at nine o’clock. Sitting at the foot of his bed, Blaine sighed loudly and climbed into his bedcovers. He pithily gazed at his display case, especially at the bottom shelf. Lightly biting his tongue, Blaine shoved the blanket off and took his laptop into his lap and roused it from its sleep mode to send a quick email.

 

_From: b.anderson@gmail.com_

_To: Mike Chang (“mikechang028@gmail.com”)_

_Time: 9:03:02 PM_

_Subject: All The Words Not To Say_

_Attachment: All The Words Not To Say.docx_

_Mike Chang,_

_Since you were duly engrossed this afternoon, I have decided to indulge you in my greatness._

_Yours truly,_

_Blaine Anderson._

_P.S. Concrit not appreciated, but you can tell me how great I am._

Blaine sent the email and closed the laptop. Its soft whirring faded away and Blaine rustled back into his bed, neatly draped the blanket over his chest, and screwed his eyes tight. Sleep. Don’t think. It wasn’t your fault. Insert another consoling lie. Sleep.

The sandman tonight wasn’t generous to Blaine, causing him to glare at his bedroom ceiling for a period of time whilst his thoughts plagued him. In the end, after fretfully struggling against his inner demons, Blaine found solace in his dreamless slumber.

 

//

 

 _All The Words Not To Say_ was a magnum opus in short literature. When Mike believed Blaine couldn’t be any more outstanding (something he wouldn’t enlighten Blaine because of that ego issue), the guy proved him wrong. No wonder Blaine had received that writing honor from his high school and the certification from the literary magazine.

It was the tale of a young man stranded in a deserted yet fully functioning metropolis. He had everything of his utmost desires but was inherently and infinitely unhappy. Spoiler alert: the nameless man committed suicide by jumping off the radio tower.

Mike spent an hour reading it and thirty minutes skimming it to re-read the parts he enjoyed. Amongst the man’s bleakness for survival and longing to find someone else (the man towed a mannequin on wheels wherever he went), Blaine had transposed the human melancholy of seclusion so wholly that when he finished, Mike had to take a breather and rest his mind. Blaine had said no concrit, which Mike chuckled at since he honestly had none—wait, maybe one. It would have been better if the nameless man found someone in the end, but that was because Mike was a sucker for a fulfilling happy conclusion.

Meaning to text Blaine that he liked the story, Mike figured it would be better for Blaine to hear it in its place; he flicked his finger across the screen to call. A grumbling “whuaaa” was not what he anticipated.

“Crap,” said Mike, “where you asleep?” Blaine mumbled back but it was intelligible and too soft to hear clearly. Mike heard the rustling of something and a tiny yawn on the line, along with relaxed breathing.

“Mmhmm.” Blaine’s voice was thick, rough, and sleepy. Mike noticed that it was 10:30 PM from the clock. It was odd, Blaine was up until midnight normally and this was a Saturday night, however Mike didn’t want to disturb the drowsy boy.

“Want me to hang up?” Mike asked, sliding into his couch.

“Mm, no, whad it sit. Why’re calling.” Blaine answered, his words slurred and soft. Susurrus-like whispers of fabric shifting graced Mike’s ears.  

Mike waited a while, wondering if Blaine was actually listening, and said, “I finished reading your story.’

“Hmm?” Blaine vocalized. Mike smiled at Blaine’s tone change from sleepy-grumpy to sleepy-happy.

He did not veil the contentment in his own intonation as he complimented the work, “Yes, it’s alright.”

Blaine let out a puff of breath. “Lit board said fantastic.”

Mike laughed quietly, feeling that if he were loud, he’d ruin this conversation. “Yeah, I can see why,” he acknowledged, one of his hands supporting the back of his neck as he descended into a lying position on his couch.

Between the ticking of the clock, the squeaks from Mike’s couch, and the comforting breaths over the phone, there was a break in the rhythm when Blaine whispered, “What did you like?”

“Need your ego stroked that badly tonight?” Mike teased in hushed undertone, a little smirk forming at his mouth.

“Mm. Shhh.” A slightly smoky timbre filtered through the receiver, it was contrary from the clean-cut spring grass tenor of Blaine’s conscientious classroom speeches. Those were motivational and uplifting; this was mellow. Introspective. Rustic and lush, it reminded Mike of the melting matutine hours from late night to early day, where the entirety of stiff drinks, consequential winding downs, and melancholic recollections were privy to those who were still up and were a little bit sober by dawn.

Mike’s lips parted in a grin as he furthered his review, “Alright, well, I think the theme of man versus himself was exceptionally done with the subplot of need versus want. Preferred a happier ending—”

“Pfft.” That was the “of-course-you-would” fizz coming from Blaine.

Mike replied genially, “Yes, I’m sappy, we’ve established that. Your diction made the story, most of all, each word felt, I don’t know, _right_? Does that make sense? Am I babbling?”

He thought he heard Blaine purring into his pillow. “Mmhmm, you are but s’nice,” was what Mike could interpret from the barely audible whisper.

“I have a kind-sounding voice, I’m told by my mother.”

“I love words,” Blaine declared randomly out of nowhere. Mike hummed into his phone in agreement.

“I can tell.”

“Do you… like words?”

“Um, I guess? Words are words, man.”

“Nn, no, not like thattt.” Blaine was whining almost childishly, it was strange and had Mike laughing again. The inflection was so off from Mike’s perception of him in class. Blaine sounded like a kid; Mike felt like ruffling Blaine’s hair or something physically friendly like that.

Mike however chose the responsible adult route, chiding the other, “Okay, okay, what did you mean, Blaine. Don’t whine.”

“Mmnot… some words feel good to say, you know?”

Any other person would have scoffed at Blaine’s claim but Mike wasn’t any other person. He understood what Blaine exactly meant.

“…Yeah, I agree. So, you have a favorite?” Mike asked.

Blaine was nearly sing-songy. “Mmhmm.”

“Want to tell me?”

There was a pause over the line until Blaine mumbled dourly, “Last time I told you something about m’self, you laughed. Jerk.”

Mike chuckled and heard the harrumph from the other end and did his best to joke accordingly, “That’s because I’m a total meanie-face but I promise I won’t this time.”

In response to that, Blaine’s breathing pattern was slower, meditative. Mike thought he would not get anything from Blaine and craned his ears, closing his eyes to picture the boy on the other line, intoxicated with sleep. Mike barely caught the word that Blaine guardedly uttered like a secret shared for the first time.

“…Courage.” Blaine exhaled.

“What?” Mike wasn’t sure if he heard it right.

“Courage.” Blaine declared, stronger, brighter than before.

“Courage?” Mike questioningly repeated.

“Courage.” Blaine affirmed.

“Courage,” Mike reiterated.

“Stoppp repeating meeee. I knew it.” Blaine’s dozy and petulant whine resurfaced with a shade of exasperation.

Mike chuckled and tried to reconcile the boy. “I’m not laughing at you, _Mr. Sensitive._ I’m honestly surprised.”

“Why?” Blaine was suspicious, or as much he could be suspicious while under the haze of slumber.

He stifled a snort at the skeptical pitch. “It’s such a simple word: courage. Here I thought you would choose something big and fancy, like callipygian.” Mike confessed with a shrug but remembered Blaine wouldn’t be able to see it and lightly scratched the back of his neck.

“Means having a good-looking butt. Pervert.” Blaine’s mutter was a bit snarky and Mike snickered, checking his phone if it was correct via the Dictionary.com app. His search result for callipygian popped up a second later.

“You’re right, just looked it up.” Mike could not conceal how impressed he was at the vocabulary that belonged to Blaine Anderson.

Blaine, maybe finding the situation hilarious from his disorientation, mischievously reported, “You’re a pervert, Mike Chang.”

Mike rolled his eyes and chose to concur with the accusation since it was dumb to argue with someone so sleep-drunk. “Sure, sure. Anyway, why do you like courage?”

A silence save for the phone’s innate signal buzzing lasted for a minute until Blaine took in a sharp breath and released it as he delved into his reason.

“…Because when I say it, I believe in it. It sounds what it’s supposed to mean, courage. I feel like I’m brave too. Valiant. Strong. Like a knight in a story. Mm, I feel like I can take on anything and keep going. Courage.”

Blaine sighed happily and a cheery, bubbly laugh floated from his phone’s speakers, perhaps freed from a weight Blaine carried within him. Mike was drifting off and flowing into his cushions, mind wandering as he listened to Blaine’s laugh fade like the closing notes of a eurhythmic song.

The words Blaine was saying to him were warm, giving off a residual heat that thrummed in his skin, akin to a ghost of touch that lingered after holding hands with someone, or the faint beams of sunlight that smoothed over him when Mike took a summer afternoon nap. At first he had found the word an absurd fit but now he wouldn’t bring it to himself to make fun of it; it just wasn’t funny to take something Blaine held so precious and ridicule it.

From this night, Blaine Anderson had changed for him, Mike couldn’t picture the condescending rival whom Puck and Finn had derided, and he had grown to strongly dislike the petty avoidance and apathy his classmates displayed in regards of Blaine’s intellectual presence. Blaine was courageous, Mike thought, he was persevering. Blaine was also other words that Mike’s brain had a tricky time processing.

“…Mike Chang?” Blaine gently called for him.

Mike let the reverie go to reply, “I’m here, I’m here. Thinking about words too. I like that explanation… it’s…” Winsome, his mind supplied after it had finished thinking. Mike racked for different contenders but his brain was obstinate. Damnit, he would have to take the easy route. “It’s nice,” was his lame finish.

“Mm.” There was a peaceful murmur.

Mike too pondered over which words he liked and discovered one among the SAT files in his head. “…I think I like meliorist.”

“Suits you.” Blaine’s sentence was badly slurred and Mike could tell that the boy was about to drop the grip he had over speech.

“I’ll bug you later, Blaine. Night.” Mike promised and Blaine’s soft hum vibrated through the phone like it belonged with the muted and tranquil sounds of the night.

“Mm, good night, Mike Chang.”

 

//

 

"Hey anyone want to tell me what's going on with Mike and _that guy_ or what?"

"I will, Finn. Last time in class, I swore I saw them passing notes to each other!"

"Blaine sits next to me all the time now... I think he and Mike slapped a deal."

" _Strike_ a deal, but ooh! Pray tell, Britt."

"Like, I think they were making a 'rondayvoo' after school or something?"

"Girl, it's 'rendezvous' and the gossip train is off! I heard that Blaine's been giving Mike _special lessons_. Just what I've heard, though."

"Fuck, can you two not talk about that while I'm studying? Christ."

"Hmph, got a problem with us LGBTs, Puckerman? I remember you wearing drag in high school once! Unique never forgets, as does her phone."

"No, you know I don't give a fuck about dick-to-dick resuscitation. There's more v for my d. That’s all that matters. I just don’t wanna know why are _we_ talking about _them_! Who cares if Chang takes it up the ass or whatever?! It's his ass."

"Puck, why are you pouting? If you ask, I'm sure they'll invite you too. I do when I see hot couples and it works all the time. It's not gay if it's a three-way."

"Pierce, it's hella homo if it's three dudes in a three-way, man. And for your information, I'm not pouting, I'm having man-pains."

"Is that like cramps?"

"No! It's more like my best bro Chang _ditched me_ when I needed him the most because he decided to have his homoerotic epiphany and shove his tongue down that douchebag's throat!"

"...didn't think you knew the word 'epiphany', Puck."

"And I didn't think you had a dick, Unique."

"Le shrug, I still had fun on that date. And if I remember you did too before you decided to run bases on the first date!"

"What, dude, really?!"

"Finn, shut up. Unique, shut up. Everyone shut up."

"Wait, so, um, Puck touched your, um, thing?"

"Finn, I swear to GOD—"

"Penis? Yep, he did and _freaked_. That's when I knew he hadn't been paying any attention _at all_ during the date because I _explicitly_ told him I was transgender."

"For the record, I thought it meant she was into kinky stuff."

"Uh huh. Anyway, Puck was very—"

"Hella badass and didn’t give two shits—"

"Gentlemanly, he held the doors and chairs for me and we seemed to hit it off. Despite being molested—"

"Fucking god, I SAID that I thought you were in the mood too and then you went and kicked me in the balls with those _DAMN HIGH HEELS!_ ”

"He was excellent on the date. Four out of five stars, will visit again."

"Cool, Puck you got a four. That's good. I would have given you a three because all we did was sleep together. I want a dinner too."

"I hate everyone here."

"Wait, what about my question though? I thought Blaine hated Mike and vice-versa? What was that all about anyway?"

"Oh that's from the seat."

"The seat?"

"Huh, really? I didn't know that, Britt. Tell us more?"

"Sure, Unique. Like, when it was the beginning of the semester Mike used to wear glasses, right?"

"Ugh, yeah, he had those geeky ones. Coach made him get contacts later on."

"Oh em gee. Puck's got me rememberin' now. Yeah, Mike had the center seat since it was the best place for him to see the entire board but then Blaine asked him to switch seats with him because he said he had bad eyesight—"

"That bitch played Chang for a chump!"

"Kinda...? The seat in front is not so bad for looking around but it's defs annoying."

"I know what you mean, girl. It sounds like a crying baby looped backwards."

"I think like Mike figured that out the next day he sat on it? And from what I remember, like Blaine doesn't wear contacts or glasses."

"Heheh."

"Hudson, are you laughing at this? That dickbag tricked our friend! We gotta egg his house or break his mailbox to defend Chang's honor!"

"...sorry. It's a little funny."

"That pieces things up. From what I know after that, it's been verbal debate after debate. Mmhmm girl, there hasn’t been a class where they haven’t been at each other’s throats... until now."

"Guys... Do you think it's foreplay for them...?"

"GOD, PIERCE. NOW I CAN'T GET THAT OUT OF MY HEAD, THANKS A-FUCKING-LOT."

"You're welcome!"

"Brittany, I think he meant it... anyway. Um, yeah.. dude, class is gonna be so awkward after this for me.”

 

//

 

_Mike Chang,_

_What did you get in the poetry exam? We got them back today._

_I'll tell you mine: 97._

_Yours truly,_

_Blaine Anderson._

_P.S. Don't be flaky._

 

Mike's pen spun in his hand and landed on sticky note.

 

_Blaine,_

_Damn, 97 is a good score._

_98 is better._

_Cheers,_

_Mike_

_P.S. I'm never flaky, Blaine! I'm hurt._

 

Mike held in a chuckle when Blaine's soft "bullshit" caught in his ears. A tap on his shoulder was succeeded by a note.

 

_Mike Chang,_

_I can't believe it. Show me after class._

_And did you want to have the next session somewhere else or is my place fine?_

_I'll schedule it when Coop's not there, he can be a pain._

_Yours truly,_

_Blaine Anderson._

_P.S. Hurt is a good look on you._

 

Mike was glad that Blaine had noticed his apprehension around Cooper. It wasn't that Mike had anything against the guy, it felt like the opposite way around to be honest.

 

_Blaine,_

_You can't trust me after everything we've gone through?_

_Your place is fine unless you want to have it over at mine?_

_Though I won't be able to cook as well as you do._

_While on the topic... hey, could you give me the recipe for that pasta sauce you made?_

_It was delicious._

_Thanks,_

_Mike_

_P.S. Sadist._

 

After he passed that note class had ended. It was another Friday and usually Mike would leave with Puck and the rest of the crew to get buzzed before the weekly team party but the group was still ignoring him. However it wasn't that bad and Mike honestly cared less. He waited until Blaine was ready and the two walked together down the hallway, Blaine announcing that the question with the true and false answer was vague and that it should have been removed from the test for being misleading while Mike teased Blaine for being a sore loser.

Opening the front doors for Blaine, Mike was about to head to his car when Blaine tugged at his arm and ordered, "Give me your hand."

Mike did as told, raising a gloved hand as Blaine placed a sticky note into his palm. "It's all in the spices, Mike Chang." Blaine sagaciously informed before a honk startled both of them. Blaine's brother cruised through the lot in a blue Mini-Cooper and Mike didn't know whether to laugh at the irony. Blaine however was far from enthused and frowned at the car and then rolled his eyes to meet Mike's glance. "Carburetor piece is hard to find apparently. Another week." Blaine explained and ignored another beep from Cooper's horn.

"Guess I'll talk to you later on CIM," said Blaine as he waved at Cooper to stop his rendition of 'Mary Had A Little Lamb' with the only instrument being car horn. Mike waved Blaine off, even extending his greeting to Cooper, but the harsh blue in those eyes froze his hand. Mike quickly shoved it into his pocket and turned to find his car.

 

//

 

“You gave him your number.” Cooper stated when Blaine first slid into the passenger’s seat.

“What?” Blaine frowned, utterly confused by that remark. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t correct Cooper by saying it was a pasta sauce recipe.

“ _You,_ ” Cooper pointed, “gave your number to _him_ ,” his index finger flew to the cool pane of the dashboard window, where beyond that Mike was opening the door to his own car. Cooper’s iconic trademark was his point, arrows that shot clear from his outstretched finger, which had a liking to miss their aim when they propelled in multitudes. Blaine couldn’t understand where Cooper’s reasoning was going and crossed his arms, definitively stubborn in his comeback that he wasn’t saying anything until his brother regained sense. The Mini-Cooper rushed down the road; Cooper was always riled up by a silent treatment and fingers drummed sporadically on the wheel as they drove a block and had to slow at a red light.

His brother edgily spluttered out a second later, “Bro, are you?” His voice bordered on a strident squeak.

“Am I what? For one thing, not a mind-reader, since I can’t comprehend heads or tails of what you’re saying so out with it.” Blaine demanded, hypothesizing on where the talk was heading. Up to the present time, Blaine had been gearing up for this eventual discussion with the long-lost-now-found brother of his, devising ways to break it easily to someone who was pronounced AWOL during Blaine’s quotably “experimental stages” of high school, however Blaine couldn’t find the means to breach the topic from the ensued awkwardness of reconnecting with his older brother after five years of aggressive non-contact.

Blaine matched his brother’s probing gaze as Cooper mouthed the word. Blaine heard of it before, how could he not, but he wasn’t used to Cooper’s mouth raised at the ends to draw out the harsh _tuh_ syllable in silence. The unspoken word poisoned the atmosphere of the car and disconcerted Blaine; it was worse than yelling. Fighting the panicked insistence from his nerves to withdraw, Blaine faced his brother with posture rigid and unashamed.

“Yes, I am gay. No, I’m not interested in him. Drive or you’ll get honked at.” Blaine said at the exact moment a blare rang behind them. The car roared as it sped down the street way over the limit.

They curved onto their driveway and Blaine quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, his brother following onto their path and talking rapidly. Blaine didn’t wait. He walked, calmly stoic, forcing his ears to drown out Cooper.

“You sure it’s not a _phase_ thing or whatever? I mean, at Harvard, there were dudes fooling around and shit and it didn’t last—fucking shit, don’t tell anyone I said that, that’s supposed to be a secret that I was supposed to take to my deathbed.”

Blaine wondered if frat brothers were more important than blood brothers and purposely kept mum about this thought.

Jamming the key into the hole, Blaine stalled from opening the door when his brother caught up to him. Cooper was antsy next to him, bobbing on the balls of his expensive leather shoes that were terrible for the winter. Blaine sighed, abandoning his keys on the door, and clutched over the frame of his hips. He stared at Cooper with frank annoyance.

“Are you actually going to freak out about this? Is this unnecessary thing literally happening now?” Blaine questioned.

“Well, yeah—last thing I remember, you were just about done middle school and now—”

“And now I’m twenty years old, _not_ a virgin.” Blaine answered on the dot. Cooper gurgled out an indescribable noise and his fingers squiggled powerlessly in the air.

“Baby bro, seriously?! Brain bleach, I need it.” Cooper covered his eyes with a hand, the other finding support on the surface of the door. Blaine rolled his gaze to the passing cars on the street. His brother shouldn’t be acting this way, Blaine thought, if he was an educated Harvard man he would be more open to—and that was when Blaine’s brilliant mind connected and hit all the hard-reaching places. If Blaine were inclined in Sciences, he would be the scientist that pushed things too far and achieved results horrendous yet genius.

Blaine didn’t fight the natural smirk that lifted his lips when he was feeling superior. “You had a _thing_ in college.” Cooper froze and Blaine hammered the last nail in. Blaine huffed out an indignant laugh at the evidence. “You had a thing in college and you freaked out because you _liked_ it. Was that the reason why you didn’t talk to any one of us for five years? Did you think we would be ashamed of you?” Blaine’s frustration rose his volume, strained his throat.

“That’s not—the only thing, you can’t—” Cooper sighed and scratched at his scalp. “What will they think about us now? You don’t know the Andersons, Blaine.” he interjected, but it was weak and Blaine livid at the remark.

“No, Cooper, _you_ don’t know the Andersons because you never met the Andersons. _I_ met the Andersons.”

“Then you know why I couldn’t come back at that time,” was the flat retort. Cooper acted incommunicative whenever they skimmed the subject, and now he was being mercurial. Blaine couldn't take it.

“Are you kidding me right now? Are you being that selfish? I couldn’t do anything back then! I had to watch lawyers argue amongst themselves, advisors telling me to sign this but not that—I hoped so goddamn hard that you, if you were even alive, to come home and set things right. I waited for you for five fucking years, but you never came.”

Cooper slammed his fist against the door; it was a sudden jolt that signaled to Blaine that the talk was adjourned, at least on Cooper’s end. Disgusted by his brother’s flighty behavior, Blaine twisted the key and flung open the door, ignoring Cooper’s calls as he disappeared upstairs. He didn’t slam the bedroom door, he wasn’t going to escalate the situation, and slid down the wood until he sat on the floor. He still had his stupid shoes on, which was one of his mom’s pet peeves. Pulling them off, Blaine let them drop to the floor in dull thumps.

Blaine hated crying. His father denounced the act as weak, but maybe Blaine fit the description well because he swabbed at his eyes in the end. Ridiculous, he chastised himself, Blaine you are being very ridiculous. His phone began to vibrate and he yanked it out, and it was strangely welcoming to see Mike's name on the caller ID. Blaine cleared his throat, tested out some sample greetings, and assured that his voice betrayed no instance of his crying, he picked up the call.

“Recipe worked like a charm. I am enjoying my cooking for once,” Mike said breezily over the phone. Blaine smiled and got up from his squalid spot next to the door to lie on his bed. Mike Chang was a mind-numbing distraction, something Blaine needed presently.

“It’s all in the spices,” Blaine alleged in his hushed tone.

“Mmhmm,” there was a slurp on the other line which Blaine thought disgusting but didn’t comment, and Mike continued after finishing up his chews, “But I omitted the butter, I don’t like excess fat.”

Blaine smirked, “Counting calories?”

There was soft warm laughter from Mike’s end. “Swimsuit season’s around the corner.” Mike joked and Blaine hummed in disagreement.

“In four months maybe, Mike Chang.”

“Hmm, you’re right.” Mike Chang simply acknowledged, saving them from a back-and-forth banter. This was new and Blaine smirked, curling his fingers tightly around the plastic case of his phone.

Taking on a superior air, Blaine then gallantly said, “I’m always right—”

“Come over.” He was interrupted by the sudden demand.

“What?”

“Come over, I need your help with something which I will pay you back with good dessert and better coffee. Those I don’t count calories, by the way. I’ll text you my address, but I have to go down to let you into the gate so give me a call when you’re in the area.” Mike said.

Mike must’ve heard the faint shudder of a leftover sob in Blaine’s throat when Blaine blurted out that he would be there in an hour. He wiped at his eyes anew and hated how good Mike Chang was in reading people.

 

//

 

Chris had sent Mike a text while he had been cooking. Ending his call with Blaine, Mike took the time to relax on his couch, one leg hanging off and another propped over an armrest (which, due to his size in comparison to the couch’s, still spilled over) and scrolled through his phone.

**Chris:**

**yo mike my parents wanted me to check up on you**

**you alive brudda**

**Yeah, I’m alive. And I’m doing well, thanks for the check up.**

Mike replied back and of course, since it was Chris, there was no answer back.

Deciding to not dwell too long on Chris, Mike cleaned up his pasta, reserving the leftover sauce for another meal. His drafts were scattered on the kitchen table. Mike picked up draft forty, which he had written about his experiences in the market stall. It wasn’t bad as his earlier works, but the poem never fully captured the essence of that memory. What use was the poem if it didn’t express what Mike wanted?

Exhaling his dissatisfactions, Mike plopped onto his small couch, phone in his hand. Blaine would arrive in an hour, and Mike had to prepare his notes and drafts. His eyes strained at the phone’s turned-off screen, and his reflection frowned back at him. The previous phone call bore in his mind; Mike hoped Blaine was alright, he thought he heard something. Maybe Mike should ask when he saw Blaine later. But if anything, Blaine would deny it when Mike saw him. Although he was curious, Mike respected Blaine’s wishes therefore he chose not to pry.

 

//

 

The apartment was so plain that Blaine had a bland taste in his mouth when he saw it. A bachelor's pad with one bedroom and bathroom, it had a living room-kitchen-study combo which should have made Blaine felt cramped but from the way it was furnished, gave the area much needed space. However the design was so devoid of personality, of Mike, that Blaine wouldn’t commit the place as resembling of his rival (now acquaintance?) at all.

Explaining to Blaine that it was the work of the landlady and that most of the furniture were hers, Mike nevertheless introduced Blaine to his home. The wall decor comprised of black and white photographs of wheat fields and cross-sections of flowers on pebbled beige wallpaper. A dark umber dining table separated "kitchen" from "living room", resembling a division sign by two round-cushioned bar stools that were propped at each end. A loveseat couch, in a shade of caramel, faced a blocky white coffee table, where a series of notebooks played Jenga. It was as if Mike's apartment was an IKEA showroom, circa the era before IKEA got better interior designers.

First thing they took off their shoes, laying them on a shoe rack in the stuffy corridor next to a miniature washer and dryer. Blaine noticed that Mike had two pairs of shoes on the wooden rack (Mike had in total three pairs if Blaine counted the plastic slippers peeking from the washroom door), one was a casual canvas sneaker whereas the opposite were classy black dress shoes, a fairly expensive brand. The dress shoes appeared to be hand-me-downs because Blaine was sure that the brand didn't circulate anymore. However the age hadn’t shown in the shoes at all, the black leather was polished that it shone under the light and the material had no telling cracks or creases. They had been cared for lovingly.

Blaine guessed he had been absorbed in them for a length as Mike clarified, "They used to belong to my father but he gave them to me as a present during high school grad. Um, I'm not upset that he did, I actually like them a lot and they fit well on me anyway. I wear them when the occasion rises."

"How adorable. You don't have to explain yourself to me." Blaine teased, sliding past Mike to move where he'd have room to stretch his legs. He glimpsed back in time to see Mike roll his eyes.

The books were Mike's, huddled in another boring IKEA showroom bookcase, and took up barely one shelf. Blaine didn't have the time to investigate their contents or snootily judge the authors as his interest was occupied by the bookcase's other tiers which held non-literary things, such as shoeboxes, stationery, and rolls and rolls of paper towels. When prompted, Mike answered that it was efficient to buy in bulk and save. Blaine did the math, it equated to seventy-four cents per roll. This was practical life advice he could relay to Cooper later. That was, if Blaine wanted to talk to Cooper later.

As he was scoping around already, Mike had given him the go sign to check the rest of the tiny apartment whilst he organized snacks and drinks. Blaine took it upon himself to examine the washroom, which was exceptionally clean which meant no blackmail material. He hummed a refrain from a song while he scrubbed his hands clean. After that, Blaine peeked beyond the washroom door and spotted the bedroom. He snuck in effortlessly as the rooms were literally inches apart.

Mike's bedroom was simple bed-closet-dresser snugly slotted together like Tetris pieces before the last piece slid in to complete a row. Simple and probably suited for its practical functions, there was really no space to do anything else in the bedroom. Blaine looked around and like everything in Mike’s apartment, there wasn’t anything that could be attributed to Mike. However, there was one unusual object in Mike’s bedroom that held Blaine’s wavering glance.

A plush tyrannosaurus rex perched on the top of the white dresser, looking so out of place that Blaine picked it up and brought it close to observe it further. The velveteen tyrannosaurus was frayed at the tail, with assorted fabric patches band-aided on its back, and noticeably stitched at the arms. There was old battle scar in the form of a missing button eye. A conspicuous smell drafted into Blaine’s nose, milky like children's formula.

Seeing the toy reminded Blaine of the time when he used to have a stuffed animal companion, a dusty pink rabbit. He was about four when his mother had deemed her as Blaine’s night guardian against the shadow creatures. Bitty was her name and she came to her untimely end when Morris Anderson’s pit bull, Killer, had done what was his namesake. Morris wasn’t sorry at all when he publicly apologized (after his father, Blaine’s uncle, ordered him to) for stuffed animal cruelty and Blaine knew, then and now, his cousin had deliberately placed Bitty in Killer’s pen because he was a lying, shrewd rat. Not that Blaine cared, he was completely over it. Bitty was long gone.

“Careful with him,” Mike brusquely chided when he entered the bedroom as well, slightly self-conscious to see Blaine in his bedroom. There was no space to move and they brushed shoulders when Mike gingerly procured the T-Rex doll from Blaine. He kept the dinosaur in his hands protected like a knight to a damsel.

Blaine never would have guessed Mike Chang was the type to have _plushies_. “A little too old to be keeping toys, aren’t you?” asked Blaine, finding the situation too good to pass up a jibe. “I gave all my old toys to Goodwill when I grew up or threw them away... plus he’s kind of mangy looking.”

Mike shrugged and petted the dinosaur before rounding at Blaine, incredulous. “Throw him away? No way! He’s... I think... fourteen-fifteen years old?” Mike laughed, grinning with nostalgic bliss. He seemed amazed by the feat and his excitement showed through his subsequent remark, “I watched _Jurassic Park_ when I was a kid, and man, _blew my mind_. For a time, I literally believed there was an island off the coast of somewhere with real, living dinosaurs.” Mike had that wide-eyed, excited look of a child that Blaine saw for the first time. It wasn’t a bad look if Blaine had to judge.

“I think I told my mom I wanted to be a paleontologist or something. For my fifth birthday she sent me a present and it was him. Though I didn’t end up researching dinosaur bones.” Mike ended with a self-deprecating chuckle and rubbed his thumb over the T-Rex’s arm. Blaine wondered why Mike said “sent” and dithered on commenting for about a few seconds until the need to know kicked in. He cursed the fact that he was inquisitive and couldn’t help himself.

“Your mom didn’t live with you?” ventured Blaine, now assuming that Mike’s parents were divorced. It wasn’t uncommon.

“No, my parents are together. When I was younger I homestayed with a family.”

“I actually don’t know what that means. Care to explain?”

Mike smirked and tapped the corner of his temple. “See, there’s much you don’t know about me, Blaine Anderson.” He chuckled and dodged Blaine’s irritated swing at him. “Alright, I won’t take long, be patient. I’ll get to it. So yeah, we were all supposed to go together. My dad, mom, and me—we planned in advance and my dad already set up business plans but then my mom got sick. And if you think medical bills in the US are crazy, then don’t go to China. Shit’s terrible and you think the officials would connect the dots that air pollution’s subsequent into respiratory disease. Anyway, I’m getting off-topic.”

“You do that in class debates too, Mike Chang, but with more eloquence that you manage to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes. It’s sad to see them fall for such a beguiler.”

“Except for you?” Mike cocked his head, gaze broken from the dinosaur and aimed at Blaine.

“Pfft, exactly. I can see right through you.” Blaine stared defiantly until Mike looked away.

“As I was saying,” Mike narrated, now taking a seat at the foot of the bed; he rolled the dinosaur in his hands. Blaine followed suit as his legs were starting to ache; the slight springiness of the mattress was comfortable and Mike’s bed had a faint smell of fresh pine that coordinated the forest-like color, it was decent that the other boy was respectable when it came to hygiene. His hands took a fistful of the pale teal-green covers as Mike talked.

“It was hard for my dad to take care of my mom and me at the same time. With her hospital fees, rent, and trying to provide for me...” Mike frowned, lips thinning as if he tasted something bitter. Blaine guessed he had made a similar face as well since Mike laughed and patted him on the back with a there-there. Blaine waved the hand away, embarrassed that he had shown such an expression in subconscious sympathy.

“He offered me a chance to study and live here; my dad had a family friend with a spare room and a big favor to owe. I don’t know what that favor was or is, but my dad says he practically saved the guy’s life, so it’s a Big Thing.” The smile was back and Blaine felt his lips slope upward. “I was Mr. and Mrs. Lau’s honorary adoptive son. It was supposed to be for a short while but... I ended up living with them through all of grade school.”

Mike looked vaguely disappointed here, to the point of pouting, and Blaine shifted uneasily on the bed. The boy quickly lifted his head and shrugged, in good spirits once again as if assuaging Blaine’s feelings first. Mike Chang had a habit of doing that, Blaine noticed.

“Don't worry, I skype with my parents weekly when we have the time. I visited them time-to-time too, when I had enough for airfare. My dad works as an English teacher and my mom mans a market stall. They’re working hard to pay for my transfer. I want to make it up to them by getting in. And that’s that.”

Finished with his life story of sorts, Mike Chang let out a deep sigh that shook his entire core, like a hot air balloon that had lost its air and had at last landed. Blaine wondered what to do—was he supposed to pat Mike on the back? Or say “sorry”? His hand tremored on the cover, stuck as if being pulled by two invisible strings, one towards Mike, one towards himself, that it remained in its place. Instead of partaking in comforting chat, Blaine sat next to Mike like a fool, his mouth on mute as his brain struggled to form a single sentence.

“So... I guess you won’t be giving him up,” Blaine announced the obvious and mentally smacked himself. That sounded plain awkward. However Mike had not minded and patted the doll’s head affectionately.

“Not Rex Wellington, he’s basically family.” Mike said.

“Rex. Wellington.” Blaine raised an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth twitched up.  It was a cute and unusual name.

“He’s from a distinguished dinosaur family, from the Wellingtons of upstate Prehistoric Fern Valley.” Mike, to comical effect, _walked_ the dinosaur over to Blaine and then dipped it in a fake-bow.

“Wow, Mike Chang. This is pretty nerdy.” Blaine nonetheless shook the dinosaur’s tiny hand.

“Mmhmm, I guess. Come on, I’ve got coffee out on the counter, we should drink it before it gets cold.” He lifted himself off Mike’s bed, watching as Mike laid Rex Wellington back on top of the dresser so the lone dinosaur could stand watch over the tiny bedroom.

The coffee was tasty, Blaine begrudgingly approved, and he nibbled on more than one cookie to be polite when he and Mike sat on the small couch, Mike reading his poem out loud with the TV droning on so the ambiance didn’t feel _too weird._ Mike was still oddly shy about being vocal even though Blaine had heard his mumblings from draft one to fifty-five.

Draft fifty-six was an improvement but cheesy. Mike was fumbling with the words. “And, um, when my eyes graze, um, the circled ridge of your, um, face…”

“Don’t say ‘um’ or I’m going to think you wrote them in the poem,” Blaine said, muting the TV to give Mike his full, undivided attention. It had a disastrous effect as the other boy clammed up further, clutching his paper like a shield from Blaine.

“Why did you turn off the sound?”

Blaine’s eyes darted back to the TV screen where Charlie was doing what he did best: being an asshole to everyone around him. “It’s _Two and a Half Men,_ it’s much more enjoyable with the sound off. Now come on, _baby._ ” Mike was stalling like a kid so Blaine lightly pawed at the paper, signifying Mike to continue.

The other smirked a little and sat up straighter on his cushion. “Did we skip over to pet names already?”

Blaine was confused for a moment until he got it and laughed. “You wish, Mike Chang.”

“Can you drop the Chang already? I think we have gotten to the point where it seems you are voluntarily spending time with me.” Mike balanced the poem onto the Pisa tower of notebooks.

Blaine crossed his legs and smugly grinned. “Only because you are in dire need of my tutelage. And why does it bother you, Mike Chang?”

“Because my girlfriend used to call me by my full name all the time when she wanted to get laid.”

The way it came out so openly from Mike’s mouth had Blaine stunned for a moment. His natural snappish quips were nowhere to be seen and Blaine achieved a mind of true vacuity Buddhist monks would have envied. “…Ah. Um.” He practically dropped his mouth only to pick it up again. It was quiet save for the clock.

“Joke, Anderson, it’s a joke. Don’t overanalyze it.” Mike also sounded strained. The mood crawled into Awkward Territory and Blaine was jittery. Were being friends with someone this hard? Quelling the blush that had taken over his face, Blaine cleared his throat.

“Because of that unwarranted revelation, I feel like calling you ‘Mike’ now.”

Mike’s eyes lit up with childish joy as he then folded his hands into fists and pumped them towards his taut stomach in zealous cheer. “Yes, my secret plan to manipulate you into saying my name worked!”

Blaine shrugged lightly, letting Mike savor his victory for the time being.

 

 

//

 

It was around 8 in the evening when they declared break. Stuffed from cookies and coffee, Blaine had been browsing through Mike’s DVD collection when he came upon, “ _The Royal Tenenbaums_ , directed by Wes Anderson.” Blaine read the title.

Mike was next to Blaine instantly. “Oh man, I love this one. Want to watch another Anderson’s work?”

And here they were now, watching as Royal Tenenbaum was lying his way to get his family to love him again. Mike had believed that Blaine would be lost in the works of Wes Anderson as Mike was but the other boy showed little to no interest or reaction, even at the scene where Chas Tenenbaum and his sons practiced a fire drill and were four minutes and forty-eight seconds late. They were all burnt to a crisp, figuratively.

“I don’t get it, it’s sort of funny but then isn’t.” Blaine commented as Royal goaded his grandsons into shoplifting. “The red tracksuits with those semi-afro curls are visually hilarious, though. And Gene Hackman gives Royal a swinger-like substance that has me enjoying a rather wretched character.”

Mike eagerly defended his movie, “I think trying to find blatant humor in any Wes Anderson film will have you unsatisfied. It’s his style: color filters, dry wit, ecletic band of eccentric characters who have one life-ruining character flaw—”

“This should be titled, _The Lawrence Andersons_.” Blaine muttered, his stare never leaving the screen where Margot Tenenbaum pulled out another cigarette, her dark-ringed eyes steely as she sucked in.

“What do you mean?” Mike likewise kept his eyes at his TV. He felt the couch sag on Blaine’s side. Royal Tenenbaum ate a hamburger and slurped his drink in his makeshift hospital bed.

“It’s nothing, I’ve just had a rough day—” Blaine stiffened when Mike held his arm. Mike saw Blaine’s eyes blink rapidly, as if he had been pricked over and over. His hand tensed on the jacket’s fabric without Mike commanding it to and he offered a small smile, in hopes that Blaine would understand that Mike was truly there for him.

“It’s okay, you can tell me, if you want. I won’t judge. And... um... if you do happen to cry,  I wouldn’t know since I’m watching the movie, which is great, by the way.” Blaine sniffed and Mike saw Blaine’s arm swipe across his face hurriedly. Retreating his hand away, Mike laid it on the crevasse between his and Blaine’s seat just as Royal Tenenbaum was stabbed by a shiv.

 

//

 

According to Blaine, Lawrence Anderson was old money, son of a poor railroad worker who made his fortune when he imparted crucial business advice to a rather important figure named Carnegie. From the inception of Anders Steel & Rail in the early 1900s, one thing had been bred down the Anderson lineage as a bloodline family trait. That was competition.

Great-grandfather Anderson, whom no one spoke about, had two sons. Lawrence Anderson, the one carried on the Anderson name, and somebody else, whom no one spoke about since he didn’t. Lawrence, following his father’s footsteps, had three sons: John Anderson, Phillip Anderson, and Richard Anderson. John Anderson had two sons, Cooper Anderson and Blaine Anderson; Phillip Anderson had one son, Morris Anderson; and Richard Anderson had one daughter, Andrew Anderson.

“Andrew Anderson?” Mike raised a brow.

“Yeah, Uncle Dick is a dick. That’s her birth name, right down to the certificate, she prefers being called Andie. She never got it changed so when her father introduced her, people would think badly of him,” said Blaine.

John Anderson was naturally superior to his brothers in every form: rugby, swimming, archery, and hunting. A card carrier of Mensa International, John was a known bibliophile. As he was pleasing to the eyes with his good looks, ears with his dignified baritone, and nose with his subtle woody cologne, John Anderson was the clear favorite of the three brothers. At age twenty (Phil nineteen, Richard seventeen-and-a-half), he did an interview for TIME. John was the most respected son; his dashing attitude glorified in the social soirees of the nauseatingly wealthy, and had several healthy anecdotes chronicling how astounding he was in comparison to his brothers. The only thing that had the high society’s nose upturned was when John married “that terribly ingénue Filipino girl”. Serendipity Anderson (née Salazar), who disliked that she always had to mention she was indeed an American citizen, was a remarkable quantum physicist.

“Wait. Really?”

“Before she married my father, yes. But she couldn’t anymore.”

In a temperate summer Cooper Anderson was born, to Lawrence’s approval, and in suit Phillip and Richard both married two dull aunts whom Blaine never had a chance to know personally as they shied from interacting with his mother. Morris was born months after Phil’s marriage, and Richard’s daughter a year after. Blaine was born three years later and was the last child in the present Anderson generation. By this time, Lawrence Anderson outlived his estranged wife, and was soon approaching his decline.

The strongest shark ate its siblings when it was born.

Lawrence Anderson, with that logic, decided John to be successor when he passed and left the prosperous corporation to John’s family only to carry on the legacy, leaving Phillip to take up hydropower and Richard to real estate. They haven’t forgotten it (or forgiven it) since Lawrence Anderson had denoted them “useless weak stools” in his will.

“Your grandfather is a total bastard.”

“Funny thing, there were rumors that he actually was.”

As much as John Anderson loved winning, his love for his family was greater. Once his father had passed away and he had a monumental headstone built, John directed his affection to his brothers, proposing to merge their respectful business so that they would cooperate as one. He received two letters from his secretary, both of them stating no thank you. The only times the extended Andersons congregated was for Christmas, Easter, and the death day of Lawrence Anderson. In celebration, the Anderson sons and their children would partake in the tradition of competition.

Cooper Anderson grew a daredevil; it was as if John’s roguish nuances in personality had been purified and distilled into blue eyes that promised unlimited excitement. By contrast, Morris Anderson was collected and sharp in all angles, especially his tongue. Andrew Anderson was pretty, blank, and firm, like a marble statue. All vied to be the top of this generation. Again, out of this trio, the gossip of the high society viewers favored Cooper.

Blaine, with his bright-eyes and unruly curls was too young, and was luckily spared from the “family games” and stuck close to his mother to helped with preparations whilst the aunts smoked or read magazines. Once his mother asked if they wanted to pitch in, or at least stop smoking since her child was in the room. Later, she was in the kitchen and Blaine, watching her expression, said what she was feeling with a child’s brutal honesty. “I hate them.”

“I still hate them.” Blaine said.

When Coop, Mor, and Andie hit their high school days, competition became tournaments. Cooper was a lacrosse champion and was accepted in Dalton Academy, which Morris had been rejected from. Morris however was enrolled by his parents in a gifted program for “conscientious geniuses” in retaliation. Andrew was the honorary ambassador for teaching girls in Africa how to read. John’s fondness of his brothers diminished with each meet, and Serendipity would occupy herself with volunteer alongside Blaine so that he didn’t have to witness three men having a chest-puffing contest. She ignored the catty complaints from the aunts that she was overlooking them and instead learned how to play the piano with Blaine.

At a Christmas party during the year Cooper graduated high school and was heading into college, John toasted his son amongst the Andersons and other high-honor guests in congratulations of his son getting into Harvard, the first Anderson to do so. Lawrence Anderson had never been a fan of the East Coast, as his wife was from Massachusetts, and his sons deferred from applying there. Stunned silence from the Andersons and applause from the guests filled the banquet. Uncle Phil and his wife mutely simpered, their eyes trained on Morris’ curving back, whilst Uncle Dick held onto his glass of wine tightly, alone since the divorce from his wife, and Andie stared at her reflection in her mother’s compact.

John’s business style was a lot like gambling. The stocks swayed whenever he invested, and soon the business was labile while Cooper was studying in Harvard. John’s advisors couldn’t control him; John had become devoted to underdog mentality, thinking that one of his small ventures would skyrocket. Following the power imbalance of Cooper’s Harvard acceptance, Morris flunked his senior year. Andie declared emancipation from her father, shaved off half her hair, and was living with her fellowship in South Africa. Dams broke from flash floods. The United States housing bubble popped in 2008. Whispers that the Anderson family legacy was slowly disintegrating irritated all three sons, who in turn, redoubled their efforts. The one who was most affected was John, who had never heard doubts about him, as he was blamed the sole responsible member for the downfall.

Blaine got into Dalton Academy, continuing the trend, and the public’s eye sighted him momentarily. The brief awareness felt—

“Horrifying. I was only fourteen.”

It was a cloudy day when reports that John had invested all of the leftover money in a newcomer company surfaced in the commerce section. It was a foggy day when details revealed that they were having trouble with its footing. Anders Steel & Rail stocks plummeted to record lows. “Anderson Shamed!” headlined the Wall Street Journal. John Anderson was deemed an idiot who didn’t know what he was doing; Lawrence Anderson must be turning in his grave.

“It devastated my father. My uncles finally had their fifteen minutes of fame, first and last, talking in the business newspapers about how they were going to correct their brother’s mistake and bring back the Anderson name.”

Mike reached out to pat Blaine’s shoulder.

In mid-December, there was an accident. It had been heavily snowing and raining, a dangerous cocktail for drivers. John Anderson and his wife had been killed swerving off a slippery road and submerged their car into the frigid river a week before an Anderson Christmas gathering. Shutters went off and reporters probed the cause of the crash but it was concluded no foul play was involved. Mike had remembered reading a story about it back in high school but hadn’t known Blaine was their son.

Talks emerged that it was orchestrated suicide and assets were frozen until lawyers knew what to do with the company, the life insurance, and the inheritance.  

“…Do you think it was?” Mike daringly asked. Instead of looking offended, Blaine appeared relieved that someone had actually wanted his opinion.

“Truthfully, I don’t know. And I don’t want to think that way, ever.”

Blaine’s own father was no exception to the Anderson family characteristic, and like his father and grandfather, had been carefully surveying his sons as well. In his will he had implicated that Cooper was to take over as CEO of Anders Steel & Rail, its investments, its share of partner corporations, everything. Blaine was to be compensated by his mother’s life insurance. There was a frenzy in looking for Cooper, who as Harvard had explained, received his credits early for graduation and was MIA. Blaine Anderson moved his stuff to Uncle Phil’s for the time being, and lawyers argued over what to make of the will and the failing company.

Sharing a room with Morris Anderson, who didn’t work and kept his overbearing mother company at home, was awful. Hearing that Blaine had also gotten into Dalton Academy fueled Morris’ jealousy and natural Anderson competitive spirit to the point which had Blaine spend long hours at his school before he was ordered to go “home”. Since he was underage, broke, but was family, Blaine was baggage to Phillip Anderson’s family. It was ironic that at the darkest point in their collective lives, John’s gamble paid off. Figures turned in a single day when the product was re-tweeted by a celebrity and soon Anders Steel & Rail & Associated Companies renewed its cash flow. Overnight, the company had an estimated two million and counting. In one day, everyone's perceptions about Blaine did a 180.

“If you think being hated was bad,” Blaine grunted, “being liked was _worse_.”

Uncle Phil latched onto Blaine like a child to a doll, taking Blaine wherever he went, saying gaudy things like “that’s my boy” and Uncle Dick referred that Blaine was “practically his son”. Morris and Andie (who returned from South Africa that year, tired and wanting to sleep in a king-sized bed) were less than pleased. One afternoon at a family gathering, Morris grabbed Blaine by his blazer’s lapels, dragging him out to the hallway, and Andie, who had always been tall, loomed over him, both of them pleased that their competition was now the runt of the Anderson litter whose main talents were singing and dancing.

“Morris asked me if I wanted to play rugby with him despite the fact that he was five years older than I was. Andie said she learned of peculiar things in Africa that could kill a man. Thinly veiled threats? Yes.”

After Anders Steel & Rail & Associated Companies were able to pay back all of their financiers, the question arose wondering who would take over the company. Phillip Anderson, sick of waiting, disputed that Cooper Anderson was good as dead and that he, who had been Lawrence Anderson’s second son, should be the successor. Richard Anderson contended the same. In the midst of the this, the high society gabbed that if John’s will was to be translated, wouldn’t Blaine Anderson, the remaining son of John Anderson, be the rightful heir?

“Jesus Christ, you’re a millionaire?”

“No. Listen.”

With that information circulating around, Blaine now felt the pressure his mother had been hiding him from. He wasn’t Blaine, he was Blaine _Anderson_. Uncle Phil and Dick and their children attended Blaine’s first performance with the Warblers when he was sixteen, crowding him when they won Regionals, the children standing off to the side enviously. Later that year, Blaine had to alternate from staying with Phillip to accommodate Richard, since Richard had accused that Phillip was feeding Blaine doctrines and denying Richard’s right to visit Blaine. Legal advisors told Blaine to do as the man wanted.

“Oh god, it’s a custody battle.” Mike whispered.

Blaine had a bedroom to himself at each place, one at Phillip Anderson’s hydroelectric powered villa and another at Richard Anderson’s immaculate-view luxury condos, and kept little possessions except for books. Blaine was a biblioklept. The love for books was the only trait of his father that he had inherited. He stole Morris’ unused English books and Andie’s discarded Human Rights manifestos, spending his time in bed whilst the adults discussed business.

A week before Blaine was to turn seventeen, things changed. His father’s business advisors and legal experts at Bauch, Gregor, & Jones declared that if Cooper Anderson was indeed missing, when Blaine Anderson was to be eighteen years old, there was without a doubt that he would be the successor unless he relinquished the position to someone else.

Blaine muttered, “Seriously horrible. Worst time of my life forever.”

Each family gathering felt like a chess match between Phillip and Richard Anderson. Blaine locked his door at night, after Uncle Dick once came in drunk to tell his sob story to a well-traumatized Blaine. Phil took Blaine (and only Blaine) to restaurants Blaine mentioned in passing that he had liked and it felt so nauseous when Phil began to wheedle about industry and liability that Blaine couldn’t eat at all. More and more events escalated that—

“That I couldn’t take it anymore. One night, my uncles came to me with a piece of paper in his hand, asking me to sign it.”

Blaine Anderson would be freed from the high-pressure responsibility of Anders Steel & Rail & Associated Companies if he granted the CEO position to Phillip Anderson or Richard Anderson. Blaine would finalize the transfer of power when he turned eighteen and was a legal adult.

“You didn’t,” Mike said but Blaine sadly shook his head.

He did.

However, before he became eighteen years old, Blaine Anderson very secretly and very carefully moved his parents’ life insurance into a bank account. Employing the same surreptitiousness, Blaine bought three bouquets of white roses, and a ticket to take the train to the cemetery. Finding the Anderson plot was easy since Andersons lavished their dead. He impassively laid one for Lawrence Anderson and was heading to his father and mother’s when Blaine noticed someone else standing over the graves, holding two flowers in his hand. The man was lanky and his black fedora shaded his face, the overcoat was dark gray and his shoes expensive. Blaine Anderson felt his heart stop when the man bent down, dropped the two flowers over the grave, and identified him, and with two hands on his knees the man hoisted his frame back up and yelled in recognition.

“Squirt?” Mike laughed. Blaine lightly shoved at Mike for interrupting.

Cooper Anderson had said he had spent the last years finding his true self in Cabo, Mexico. Stints were, but not limited, to yoga instructor, bartender, DJ, hotel manager, and pool lifeguard. When he had heard of his parents’ death from a family friend he kept in touch with, Cooper did what he could to get back to Ohio to see Blaine, which involved a lot of lying and a lot of gregarious charm.

As happy as Blaine was in meeting his brother again, he was stricken with the guilt of what he had done and when Blaine had finished explaining to Cooper in a nearby coffee shop, about everything—Cooper Anderson got up from his seat and politely asked where the bank account was held. Cooper Anderson then withdrew his fair share of the inheritance, bought himself a Mini, and drove them to the Law Offices of Bauch, Gregor, & Jones. Cooper bought out Jones.

Cooper’s second demand was to temporary have his father’s business partners run the corporation while they figured out the legalities. Next announcing that he was the rightful heir and that his younger brother wasn’t of age, Cooper insisted that anything done by Blaine was not and could not be of legal standing. Then he bought a house for himself, using the services of Dick’s archrival in real estate to add insult to injury, and Blaine, amongst the craziness of this, missed his chance to further his high school achievements and by senior year, was the most lackluster Anderson the rumors noted. At least the other Anderson children had been child prodigies.

And now, two years had passed. Cooper’s drive to run the company was questionable, he hadn’t the luxury of money in Cabo and now in Ohio, he went instant nouveau riche and spent his money on trivial things. The rumor mills ran again. Cooper Anderson was the complete opposite of the phrase, “all work and no play makes a dull boy”. Blaine, in response to the negative buzz, penned _All The Words To Not Say_ at the end of senior year, to literary praise but it wasn’t enough for his goal. Blaine wanted to leave and start anew somewhere far away.

“This is why I’ve been saving up. I haven’t touched any of it, because you know how damn costly the tuition is. I just—” Blaine sighed and just slid into Mike’s couch. "I want to get out of  _here_ , so bad. I hate the Andersons so much but I want to make them proud too. Am I crazy?" Mike surprised him by pulling Blaine into a hug, replying in his body language that Blaine wasn't wrong, he wasn't crazy, and that he was a boy with too much on his shoulders who _terribly_ needed a hug.

Blaine tensed up. “What are you doing,” Blaine squeaked from the sudden contact and loss of air as Mike tended to bearhug. One of Mike's hands stroked Blaine’s back reassuringly as his mother had done for him when he had to fly back to the States after a visit.

Mike didn’t say anything for a while until Blaine seemingly went boneless and rested his forehead on his shoulder, whispering so only Mike could hear, “Thank you.”

“Mm.”

Royal Tenenbaum’s grave read that he “saved his family from the wreckage of a sinking battleship."

 

//

 

Blaine went home regardless of how much Mike offered to sleep on the couch and Mike spent the rest of the evening studying and mending his friendship with Puck. His friend had sent a text saying that he missed his "Brochang" and that he was sorry for being kind of an ass and if Mike needed anyone to have his back, Puck would be there. And if Mike wanted to bring _Blaine_ (this was key in telling that Puck was sincerely sorry) along, it was fine too. Puck didn't "playa hate". Soon they were chatting it up like they used to.

Later that night, Mike logged into his Facebook. Puck had sent him a text saying that his crops on Farmville needed some help and that in return, he would bring the beer at their next team party. It wasn’t a big deal and Mike’s character waddled onto _Ye Ole Pucked-Her-Man_ ’s Farm and sprayed water from a can. After that, Mike replied to Unique’s status update, read his feed, and untagged photos of himself at a recent party. There were no more notifications to deal with and Mike was left on his profile page. He had 799 Facebook friends.

Clicking on the link, Mike transported to a lengthy directory of teammates, students, counselors, and more often than not, random girls from other schools. He wondered if Blaine had a Facebook too, maybe Mike had added him a while back? He scrolled up from Enriquez, to the A’s. His friend list was extensive and checking each name stung his eyes hence he quickly typed out Blaine Anderson in the search bar. No match found, stated Facebook. Would you like to search for Blaine Anderson? Mike supposed why not, everyone searched for everyone else on Facebook once in his or her life.

According to Facebook, there were three Blaine Andersons in the United States, and one Blaine Anderson from Ohio. That profile picture had the parted gelled hair, groomed eyebrows, distinct smile, and daring expression. The other two Blaine Andersons from California and Michigan could not compare. Selecting it, Mike was dismayed to view major parts of the profile was privacy-blocked. Typical.

You must add Blaine Anderson as a friend, Facebook unhelpfully pitched in. Fine, Mike thought, and his mouse pressed to add Blaine as a friend. While the request was pending, Mike saw that some of Blaine’s photos were public-view, and although he was aware that he was currently driving straight into the outskirts of Stalker Territory, Mike went for it.

On the page there were merely a smattering of photos, less than fifty, and all of them involved Blaine wearing a uniform blazer. Red-piped on the edges of the deep black-blue navy blazer, there was a refined, Old-English calligraphic red D which sat over Blaine’s left chest, paired with ash-gray trousers and dress shoes. Mike leaned forward in his seat, absorbing the first photo with the focus he usually reserved for difficult chemical equations. But then again, Blaine Anderson was similar to a difficult chemical equation.

The photograph was taken while Blaine was still singing, a microphone clutched in his hand. Mike remembered the trophies in Blaine’s trophy case, one that was for show choir. He surmised the photograph was from Blaine’s high school days, and surveyed the picture more closely. Blaine’s eyes were closed and mouth open, one hand was held out in front of him as if he were reaching out. Another hand held the microphone close to his lips. Stage lights shone through his hair, reflecting near the top by the shine of the gel, and washing down the loosened strands of hair, like sunlight streaming through tree branches. Whoever the photographer was did an excellent job in catching the movement close-up, as there was another member behind Blaine in mid-dance step.

He cycled to the next one, watching Blaine and his group organized into files and standing up firm, appearing almost military by their structure, their eyes trained to the crowd of enthusiastic audience members. Another had the team covered in confetti and group hugs. There was a close-up of Blaine receiving the trophy, blazing smiles and modest manners as he shook hands with the judges in sheer gratitude. Mike hadn’t seen such a broad, kind-hearted smile that graced Blaine’s face, one that had his eyes sparkle (lighting, it’s all lighting, Mike hypothesized) with boundless euphoria. More and more Mike visually drank in the photos, his pinky resting on the right arrow key to proceed after seeping in the sight, much a visitor to a garden where he could marvel quietly at the floral collection, contemplate, and move on. The photo Mike liked most was a candid where Blaine was lounging on a hotel couch, blazer open, tie pulled off, and hair mussed. His hands were folded over his lap loosely. Blaine gave the impression that he was relaxed, content. Fulfilled was the word Mike was going for as he described the manner Blaine peacefully looked at the camera. Mike’s pinky clacked on the right arrow key but the image stayed. It was the final photo and upon assessing it for a second time, Mike decided that warmness was the best answer.

Now Mike was warm and his fingers twitched in want to do something about it. Rush hour thoughts collided with one another, unable to sieve into coherency that confounded Mike’s head. Smothered with agitation, Mike pulled back from his computer screen, pushing back into the back of the couch and staring up at his living room ceiling. He twirled his pen high up, watching it barely skim the top of the ceiling, and reached out to catch the falling pen. He strangely missed it.

The pen landed onto the coffee table, emitting an equally stunned clunk and rolled sideways, stopping where his block of sticky notes lay. Mike grasped at it, arm outspread, and hovered on top of the pen and the sticky notes. The skeptic in him shook his head but an audacious, coquettish flare that rarely materialized ultimately did and it commanded Mike as it had done before. Put pen to paper.

Mike hoped that he wouldn’t regret it later while he swiped a sticky note and his pen and jotted down.

It was past midnight when his phone buzzed in midst of his riveting reading of biological functions of cancerous lymphatic cells. As much as he longed to read on—what could possibly happen next to those healthy cells?!—Mike immediately checked the notifications heralded from Facebook and a text.

On his phone it read on a banner: ‘Blaine Anderson has accepted your friend request.’

That went off without a hitch, Mike mulled over. He next saw the text.

 

**Blaine:**

**i don’t go on facebook a lot so don’t expect me to reply on there promptly. congrats on your 800, by the way. you’re my 207th.**

Mike went to his profile and let out an amused breath. Blaine was the 800th Facebook friend, a number and a group Mike didn’t care for in general but since it was Blaine it felt to be of significance. Anything Blaine stipulated meaning. Mike’s gaze fell upon his discarded poetry assignment, eraser shavings, and multiple sticky notes on his desk. Pressing the palm of his hands over his eyes, Mike exhaled. There were fifteen days to go and his poem assignment remained topic-less and wordless. He took into account when Blaine advised at the teahouse to write objectively about childhood log cabins, or the wild Minnesotan Midwest, because literary experts ate that profound material up.

“Never write about love, ever. It’s infantile, heartthrob garbage for teenage girls. Any idiot can write a love poem, but it’s never good.”  Blaine had divulged when they were walking back to the front of the teahouse, “People squabble about love all the time; all these ‘crimes of passion’ nonsense, absolute _cliché_. Better to go with something that can’t be subjective to the literary panel unless you’re aiming to fail, Chang.” Mike had disagreed then and now: poetry was more heart than idea. And what was more heart than love?

Sophocles had once alleged,

  

“One word

Frees us of all the weight and pain of life:

That word is love.”

 

And Mike had to ally with Sophocles there, sorry Blaine. Sophocles was epic.

There was a reason why Mike butted heads with the other boy. Blaine was so inflexibly fixed in a point every so often, guarded due to the concept of proving his _Anderson-ness_ , that Mike wanted to drag the boy to the middle of a busy downtown street and do something awfully embarrassing, like dance to 80’s glam rock blasting from a stereo and hold up traffic and permanently tarnish the Anderson reputation that Blaine didn’t have to maintain. Blaine was remarkably flawed yet unsullied by the negativity surrounding him; Blaine held himself to exceptional standards and kept them, and rejected the parts that couldn’t fit the Anderson model. It was unfair. Blaine deserved to be Blaine, not another forgettable Anderson.

Mike hated that; he wanted to force Blaine to be _Blaine_ , the occasional nerd, the goofy model car collector, and the wordsmith. He was the avid singer who smolderingly crooned Roxy Music to _himself_. A person who bought vocabulary books eons before SAT season and employed each verbose word for his own enjoyment. A person who had smiled so effortlessly if all those photographs held truth. Mike guessed he must’ve liked Blaine Anderson a whole lot if he could list all those things.

He must’ve felt _something_ for Blaine, a something which he wasn’t going to try to address yet, since it made his hands sweat and his chest thrum painfully—but it felt like a good pain, a justified pain that Mike didn’t mind it much if not at all—and if Mike had to admit it?

Blaine’s favorite word was _courage_ , and for god’s sakes, it was kind of cute.

Mike had fallen hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this chapter and hope you are enjoying this story. And for the kudos, I appreciate them greatly. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine so please let me know if you see any that I may fix, I welcome any and all concrit! 
> 
> P.S. Keep guessing who the poet is! ;D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the finale to Sophomores! Sorry that I took forever, there's something about confession scenes that are just plain hard to write. I don't know if I'm going to be satisfied with this one, but it's the best one so far. The work is unbeta'd and all mistakes are mine! Apologies!
> 
> The rooftop scene is derived from an old RP thread, so if some readers recognize the familiar setting, it's from that. 
> 
> Alright, enough chit-chat. Let's figure out the secret poet!

{ Act IV. There was an unforeseen snag.

Professor Ashbury could tell that the gravity of the assignment was finally sinking in when a hundred or more pale faces took in her every movement with intense concentration; there were some terrified and visibly shaking when she reminded them of the upcoming due date. What surprised her was that Mr. Anderson was one of those pallid faces, it was remarkably odd that Ashbury wondered if there was something personal affecting the lad as he was one of her brightest students; the poem was to be nothing to him. Beyond that reasoning, she presumed it was a distraction that plagued her student, and said distraction took on the alluring form of Mr. Chang, who had been sitting that despicable excuse for a chair for quite some time now. Perhaps a bargain had been exchanged between the two? Ashbury adjusted her glasses, examining the chair closely. It was a rusty thing that the faculty wouldn't throw away. Their argument was they needed all the seats they could get, the noise level irrelevant if it meant saving a spot for a student (and a fistful of dollars). The board was run by a kakistocracy of misers.

Watching her two students had become a sort of daily occurrence for Ashbury. As a complete outsider, it was terribly curious to see a flipside to her sophomore lit class' ever-present warring rivals. For instance, there was that one time when Mr. Chang pulled out all the stops in his hands’ miniature circus tricks, so that he could have Mr. Anderson record it on his phone; or that event when Mr. Anderson slid his hands across his desk in an innocuous manner so that he could fix the collar of Mr. Chang's shirt that had been flipped up.

Ashbury thought for a minute and came to a conclusion of her students’ behavior: preemptive vernorexia. Kids and their hormones. Was this a college lit class or sex education? There was a sign that it was heading to the latter as Mr. Puckerman loudly gabbed about his latest conquest under the covers that Ashbury lifted from her table forcefully, getting the class' attention as she next announced, "Biography report on your favorite poet, due next class." Everyone groaned and Mr. Puckerman tried to ignore the glares of fifty or more students, minus two in the center who were lost in mutual apodyopsis. Ashbury smirked her wrinkled lips.

 

//

 

The dough twirled in the air, unfurling like a billowy gown of a ballroom dancer, and landing elegantly onto Mike’s raised fingertips. Blaine was seated behind a see-through glass pane, the wall in which divided him from Mike in the kitchen. It was a late Tuesday afternoon, and the fourth day in a row he was spending time with the currently working boy. On Saturday, they studied at Cafe de Lima; on Sunday, they scoped around the bookstore at the mall for poetry inspirations; on Monday, more studying at the cafe.

Since Blaine was in midst of a “conflict” at his household and Mike’s shift was due to start after school had ended, Mike’s invitation of a free dinner was a no-brainer decision. Blaine’s car, at last fixed, trailed after Mike’s to a place downtown. He had assumed that Mike worked at a grungy locale as their cars were issued to park in an enclosed lot, and the streets, or what remained of them, were cracked planes of earth. Imposing blocky buildings, creating a permanent shadow to the space, obscured daylight and the lamps seldom had working bulbs. Yet the pizzeria made itself known that it wasn’t the case.

Maria Bella’s reminded Blaine of an old-school mom-n’-pop shop; his eyes zigzagged over the alternating red-white checkerboard pattern of the terrazzo floors and funky furniture. A simple chalkboard menu hung on a wire above Blaine, who was seated on a bright cherry-red cushioned stool at the counter. A heated pizza rack circled around gently, lending its intoxicating smell to any who walked in.

Mike smacked the dough flat and spread a circle of homemade tomato sauce, next leaning over to place some toppings of mushrooms, Italian sausage, and mozzarella cheese evenly across the disc. The delivery boy was gone, off with several boxes from a large family order, leaving Mike and Blaine alone together, if that oxymoron made sense.

“I can have break in ten minutes,” Mike alerted him, causing Blaine to snap out of his thoughts. His eyes had chosen that inopportune moment to be blankly occupied, and Blaine twitched up, changing from his slouch on his elbows when he noticed that he had been staring—but his mind elsewhere—at Mike’s flour-dusted arms. The pizzeria’s uniform was a tight black shirt; Mike had explained after changing into the clothes that his bosses got the size wrong when he first applied, assuming he was a rather lanky Asian boy, which was quite the contrary. Over it was a white apron with the shop name and logo. Blaine hurriedly glanced up, embarrassed for the staring, to meet Mike’s eyes and drew away at the contact. Mike’s eyes were curious and... darker than before, Blaine noticed. Normally Blaine would categorize the color as the shade of a chestnut shell, or the edges of a sepia photo, but in this case, it was almost the tone and intensity of roasted coffee beans—nearly black.

Inexplicably, Blaine blushed. Quickly asking for Mike to repeat as he hadn’t caught what was said, Blaine turned to look at the jukebox in the corner, watching with little interest at the flashing neon lights since his mind and his eyes were not presently working together. He was frazzled for no reason. From beyond the glass wall, Mike spun on his heel, sliding in the finished pizza into a rolling oven rack, which fed the pizza into the mouth of the stone hearth.

“I said that I can have break in about seven minutes ‘til now. I think we’re allowed a pan pizza as long as we pay for it.” Mike busied himself by attending to the other mounds of dough. Soon they were dancing in the air again under Mike’s hands. “You don’t have any food allergies, right?” asked Mike.

“No, none. I pretty much can eat anything.” Blaine replied, looking at the sign still.

“Good.” Mike’s tone was a touch amused.

At that second Blaine’s phone vibrated on the countertop, making a rattle that almost had Mike lose rhythm. Another chattering shiver from his phone prompted Blaine examine the sender. It was Cooper.

**Coop:**

**BRO YOU WANT KOBE STEAK**

**I KNOW A GUY**

**PLUS IM BUYING**

 

Blaine scoffed and didn’t bother with a reply, but Cooper had sent another message.

 

**YO SQUIRT I KNOW YOU READ MY MESSAGE**

**I CAN SEE THE READ AT 4:26 PM ALERT UNDERNEATH**

**YOURE NOT FOOLING ANYONE**

**TALK TO ME ALREADY**

Grumbling, Blaine shut down his phone and even flipped the face to the tabletop. He wasn’t averse with having dinner with his brother, however it often involved Blaine testing his own patience for periods of times and extremities of events. The last time they had a brotherly dinner, Cooper had left early after he had gone to the washroom and never returned for their food. Hours later when Cooper finally came home, it turned out that he met a guy in the washroom who knew a guy who knew a girl who was intimately acquainted with a bouncer at the newest, hottest dance club, which was at having a special one-night-only extended happy hour and they could get there but they had to leave right now, no Cooper didn’t have time to text his baby brother about the details!

Blaine felt the animalistic urge to rip up the paper napkin held in his hand but didn’t, instead exhaling out his irritation in one, noisy, long sigh.

“Brother?” Mike called out from the other side, a sympathetic look on his face. Blaine groaned back a resounding yes and fought his head from falling onto the counter. “Sorry about that, I know the feeling.” Mike said as he untied the straps and walked to the back of the kitchen, returning sans-apron but with an oven glove holding up a personal pan pizza. Lifting the countertop door with one hand, Mike carefully laid the warm pan on the flat surface, and yanked the glove off, throwing it over the glass. It landed on a clean cutting board.

“I’ll get plates and napkins,” Blaine volunteered, wanting to be useful. Mike pointed out where the cutlery was and soon they both had a slice on each paper plate and a can of cold pop next to them. They both liked Dr. Pepper.

The pizza was delicious. Golden cheese bubbles of Monterey jack, mozzarella, asiago, and pecorino romano covered a hearty red sauce and flecks of garlic and herbs. Its aroma was garlicky-rich, inviting, and not greasy at all that Blaine could barely keep himself in check when Mike pulled apart the pieces—the cheese clung to each other in tantalizing gooey strings that it was sinful to watch. The crust was browned and the fluffy dough so seductive that Blaine resisted the want to bite. Food pornography, Blaine thought as Mike split another piece. It was obscenely explicit food pornography. Although Blaine was a person who maintained a healthy diet, he loved pizza to ridiculous proportions and he was more than ready to dig in.

When the pizza was placed on his plate, Blaine instantly bit into his slice and gurgled out his enjoyment, taking another mouthful. “It’s so good—ah hot—so gooood.” Blaine smiled and chewed, half-blowing out the steam from his mouth to cool the melted cheese. It was divine. And Blaine felt fantastic. Who said food therapy was bad?

“Yeah, they have awesome ingredients and recipes here,” breathed out Mike in agreement, “sometimes I buy some pizzas in bulk and heat them up for lunch or dinner... speaking of which, you okay with having dinner with me for the fourth day in a row?” Mike’s statement had Blaine stop his frenzied devouring. Blaine gulped. Mike was coaxing him into talking about his brother, Blaine could tell, as Mike Chang was honestly interested in what Blaine was going through, and that sincerity was the reason why Blaine opened up without fear because Mike was a good guy.

Blaine confessed after wiping a corner of his lips, “Coop and I haven’t been on friendly terms as of late—”

“Is it because of me?” Mike strangely interrupted. Blaine was completely perplexed by the remark.

A beat later, Blaine grinned at Mike’s antics. “What do you mean? Why would he?” In his opinion, Mike irritating anyone was unthinkable.

“Ah, uh, I don’t know. Maybe I bugged him last time I was at your house or maybe later on at the school and said something off, yeah, no, I don’t, um, know.” Mike’s leg was hitting one of the stool’s legs in a rapid succession of taps.

“Pfft, don’t be silly. It would be the other way around,” Blaine laughed and clapped at Mike’s broad shoulder jovially. “I think he’s having a preemptive stress reaction because I’ll be at the East Coast by the time this year ends. I think he doesn’t want it to happen ‘cause he doesn’t want me to grow u...”

Blaine’s tone thinned out when he got to the end of his train of thought.

It was true that Blaine depended on his brother since the elder had re-entered his life, and Blaine was thankful for that. Cooper protected Blaine to the best of his ability, kept their days unexpectedly eventful, held the weight of the Anderson title on his own shoulders. Cooper thrived knowing that Blaine, the last member of his family, the only remainder of their parents, needed him. Blaine had a theory he had been skirting around from thinking too deeply about: that Cooper had always been jealous of him. Specifically, of how their mother cared for Blaine a little bit more, of how she was able to shield Blaine from competition, expectation, and responsibility. Blaine was sorry for it, and was sorry for what he was doing to Cooper now. Now that the rivalry shifted and Cooper was faced with two other powers without a teammate. Cooper was both riddled with the betrayal from Blaine’s departure and the jealousy that he couldn’t do the same.

“My brother would correct me all the time when we were kids,”  said Blaine out of the blue, stopping Mike from biting into his second slice. The pizza floated in its place whilst Blaine continued.

"He tried to teach me how to play lacrosse, once. Maybe he wanted me to play with him. Maybe he wanted me to continue what he started. Anyway, I got hit on the forehead but... it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. My mom yelled at Coop and sent him to his room even when I kept on saying I did it. He never asked me to play again. Maybe he was competing with me that time, for my mom, and he knew he lost.” Blaine sighed and sipped a bit of Dr. Pepper to wet his throat.

“Remember when I said I homestayed?” Mike spoke up and Blaine nodded, Dr. Pepper in his hand. “Well, the family I stayed with has a son. His name’s Chris and... I’m sure that the guy hates my guts.” Mike shrugged when Blaine’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead. He had never heard of anyone actively hating Mike Chang, even Blaine himself had grown to tolerate the boy seated next to him. Mike was reading his thoughts again, since the boy was letting out an amused huff of breath.

“Don’t act so surprised. You hated me at first, Blaine.” Mike smirked and tilted his chin up. The shop’s lights shone over Mike’s expressive eyes, glinting the teasing shades of brown.

Blaine flushed and shoved Mike’s arm (it didn’t budge). “You did too,” Blaine countered.

“Hm, you were a minor nuisance back in the day, it wasn’t as if I was scheming your downfall like a super villain.”

Dropping that argument, Blaine reached for another piece and sighed happily when the chewy texture and flavorful pizza met his tongue. Mike was shaking his head, hiding a smile behind his own slightly shiny fingertips before saying, “You really like pizza.”

Blaine rolled his eyes—obviously he loved pizza—and took another bite as Mike went on about his family.

“I don’t hate Chris. He was like a brother to me, but his parents would make such a goddamn deal whenever I did something they deemed was better. Like when my grades were higher, or if I’d help around the house more than he would.” Mike was grimacing and scrubbed at his lips with a paper napkin. Then he crumpled it up and rolled it onto a side of his plate.

“But it didn’t mean I was going to fail my classes or act like a slob and don’t contribute to the household, my parents were doing so much for me, and I appreciated the Laus for taking me in. I guess,” Mike sighed, “I inadvertently put Chris through so much unnecessary pressure. I feel wronged by his attitude toward me, but when it comes down to it, I feel bad. I should have talked to him about it.”

“That’s not your fault at all, Mike.” Blaine responded, wanting to show some kind of physical comfort in making Mike feel better. Blaine slowly unfurled his arms, which had been crossed while Mike was telling his story, and rested it around Mike’s shoulders in a brief and awkwardly positioned side-hug. Their fingers, sticky and buttery, met once before Blaine leaned back. He nudged his leg teasingly beside Mike’s. “Don’t feel bad about that, seriously. Sometimes you’re too nice for your own good. You do know you’ll be in last place if you keep up this heroic romanticism.”

Mike whined that he didn’t act like that, which had Blaine disbelievingly snort. Mike grumbled and reached for the remaining slice just as Blaine’s fingers touched the crust.

“Ah, go ahead!” Blaine suggested, remembering that he had about four slices.

“Nah, you go ahead. I have a lot of these at home,” was the reply so Blaine had the final one because it was pizza.

So they sat there in quiet except for Blaine’s munches, with Blaine on his stool, cleaning off the spots of sauce dotting his mouth with a napkin and a sweeping tongue, and Mike staring at him with a small smile and helping guide Blaine to the right places by saying things like, “more to the left, no your left, Blaine” that had Blaine break out into a grin from whichever bubbling feeling deep in his chest. Blaine was truly content in a long while. A tiny part of him knew the reason why.

“I’m glad we’re doing this. Like, I haven’t felt so close to someone in a while.” Blaine professed, taking a wet wipe from Mike and rubbing it across his stained fingers. Judging disapprovingly at the stubborn oil on his hands, Blaine decided to wash his hands after this, trying very hard not to think and linger too much on his declaration he had just uttered. Blaine knew it was a random blurt out of nowhere and expected the other boy to crack a joke but was surprised when Mike said, “Me too.”

Blaine looked over and saw that Mike’s eyes had been on him, it felt like they hadn’t ever left Blaine’s face, and Blaine locked their gaze, settling deep into the irises of Mike’s eyes and studiously observing all the swirls and dashes before a tickle inside of him caused Blaine to twitch and dart his sight to his left. Weirdly breathless and unable to explain the phenomenon, Blaine’s nerves caused him giggle aloud. And Mike laughed right after as sometimes there was nothing better to do than laugh it off.

“God, sorry, was that cheesy?” Blaine laughed, hiding the redness that was definitely spreading across his face. He shied away by raising an arm.

“A little, just a little.” Mike cleared his throat. “Not as cheesy as my poems though.”

Blaine didn’t contain the _hah_ that ran out of his throat and nudged Mike’s leg again. “Yeah it’s like someone ordered the extra cheese pizza.”

“Me, I did. I ordered it.”

Blaine was about to quip another thing but saw that Mike was smiling, so Blaine did the same as they cleaned up.

When he got home, Cooper was home, which was unexpected. Blaine swiftly disregarded him when his brother got up from the couch. Rounding a freshly-delivered statuette of a Grecian god at the front of the hall, Blaine was already on the third rung of the stairs when Cooper cut in, “It wasn’t a guy, okay? It was a mess between these two other people. You can be gay.”

Blaine glared at his older brother at the base of the stairs and spat out, “ _Can_ be gay? Why, thank you for the permission.” He stomped the rest of the way up, but stopped when Cooper’s hand found itself looped around his wrist. “Let go,” Blaine growled but his older brother begged him to stay and sit on the stairs for a few seconds, that was it, please. Obliging but suspicious, Blaine had Cooper plop down on the step first before he gently sat down on a higher stoop.

Cooper leaned back and rubbed his scalp with his hand, his legs stretched over three or four steps, and tilted his head over his right shoulder to give his younger brother an once-over. Blaine crossed his arms and lifted his chin a tad when Cooper tried to smile.

“I wanted to make sure you’d be left alone,” Cooper began, blue eyes dulling into slate when he looked off to the marble bust at the stair’s feet. “Because you know, you’re not the screw-up here. Everyone’s talking about _me_.” Cooper’s body shuddered in a silent chuckle. Blaine gripped the inside of his bicep when he realized what Cooper was trying to say.  “I already fucked up so many times, Squirt.” Cooper grinned, “and it’s a great diversion tactic, but I think people are getting fed up with me. I wanted to hide you as long as I could, but I think I handled it like shit, huh?”

“Yeah, you did.” Blaine mumbled, and after a brief struggle, patted Cooper’s right shoulder. “Did you really have a gay freak-out?”

Cooper shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s been years, man. No, not a gay freak-out. It was like a three-way situation that went real south, like Cancun south. Didn’t know they were married!”

Blaine smacked his face. “Ugh, only you would get in a scandal involving a paramour relationship. _Goddd_ , Cooper... no wonder you’re so secretive about your college years.”

“I’m making up for your lack of fun, _Bland_.”

“...What was it like?”

 "I’m not telling you! You’re my kid brother!”

Blaine rolled his eyes as his brother helped him up. It was awkward as they eyed each other, Cooper descending downstairs and Blaine making his way up, and Blaine knew it would only stay this way as they were headed toward two very divergent paths. Cooper was a circle forever looping his manner of excess, whereas Blaine was a line moving on. This was their tangent.

By the rest of the evening, Blaine was annoyed with himself. He had homework to get to but felt so restless that he couldn’t focus on it. Spending the seconds by staring at his unchanging ceiling, Blaine grabbed at his phone on the first buzz, gracious to whomever saved him from boredom.

**Rachel:**

***Blaine~***

**rachel! how’re you?**

***Boooored. I went out with that cute gay guy and just returned! Now I need my adorable other gay.***

 

Blaine rolled his eyes at the remark; “other gay” wasn’t a very flattering name. However since it was Rachel… Blaine bit his tongue (or in this case, his thumbs) as he texted back:

 

**you guys have fun? what did you do?**

***We went shopping! He helped me pick out an ensemble at Barney’s that says ‘feminine mystique’.***

**that’s nice.**

He didn’t have much to say in that topic; Blaine was terrible at deciphering female fashion and preferred to dress accordingly to GQ’s general guides of style. He wasn’t a vogue trailblazer.

He could see Rachel’s response coming into fruition by the ellipses when at that moment there was another incoming text, from someone else. Blaine rolled onto his stomach so that he could get comfortable as he read the text.

**Mike:**

**Should I expect you tomorrow after school as well?**

**Soon we’ll be hitting a week of spending time together in a row. Are we celebrating this? :P**

 

Blaine chuckled and shook his head. Mike’s cheekiness made him smile. He absentmindedly thumbed through multiple message alerts, paying no heed to as he was thinking up his reply for Mike:

 

**no, i’ll leave you alone tomorrow. the other boys are going to think you’re whipped.**

**Hey, I’m not whipped! :(**

**you are so!**

**Only because you’re so particular about things, Blaine.**

**but you still do what i ask of you to. whipped. ;)**

**If I don’t follow your instructions, you get huffy, cross your arms, and roll your eyes.**

**Sometimes I see you pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek. It makes a rather cute bump that I want to poke.**

**observant. but still whipped.**

**If you have time to argue with me, you must have finished your poetry assignment already. I still can’t think of anything.**

 

Not replying back to the text, Blaine instead frowned at his own loss of words. He was in the same boat as Mike. It was a rare case but Blaine was actually experiencing a bout of poet’s block. He again thought little of it; confident that his moment would soon arrive, and he would submit that poem to the Poetry Contest and win his scholarship. It was going to happen according to Blaine’s plan. His phone buzzed.

**Mike:**

**I’m taking a shower, be right back.**

 

Seeing as Mike was now gone, Blaine finally checked his notifications, all of which were from Rachel.

**Rachel:**

***Yes, it was! :3***

***He is marvelous, Blaine. I think you’ll like him when you two meet. Seriously, I think you two are meant to be!!***

***Invite me to your wedding in the future, okay? Since it’ll be you two running it, it’s going to be utterly debonair. I’ll wear a perfect Vera Wang bridesmaid dress! Or is it groomsmaid?***

***I also volunteer my talents to sing at your wedding. Of course by then, I’ll be the biggest name on Broadway, so all the guests will be thrilled to see me as their main attraction, after your wedding.***

***Blaine?***

***Blaiiiiine. Blainers! Blaine! Blaine!***

***You better be doing some smart thing you’re always up to or I will be upset.***

**i was talking about a project with a friend.**

***Oh, reallllly?***

**yes, yes. and rachel, you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, i appreciate the gesture but i’m not looking for a boyfriend.**

***Not a boyfriend! A husband! You guys can be like NPH and that other guy! They’re married with kids and they’re so cute!***

**david burtka, rach. :P and like i said, i’ll focus on my love life after my transfer, okay?**

**then i can be in new york and see mr. husband material for myself! :)**

***Yayyy! :3 Okay! Go get ‘em so that we can see you soon, Mr. Anderson-Hummel! ;)***

**is that the guy’s last name?**

***You didn’t tell me your guy’s first name, either!***

 

Blaine blushed at the mention of “your guy”. Mike was not his guy.

**because he’s no one important.**

He stared at his own text in shock as it laid there on the field of messages, wrapped in a blue bubble, unable to be popped as the “read” sign underneath flashed. A nausea settled in the back of his throat as he rapidly tapped out a follow-up so that the message wouldn’t be such a fresh wound.

 

**and fine, fine. we’re even. :P**

**i’ll figure it out when i get to new york!**

**so don’t think about spoiling me, hahaha.**

***Oh, no worries, I won’t! ;)***

**i miss you, rach. it’s always been fun with you the most.**

***Samesies, Blaine Warbler! :’( you are the only aca-fella for me! You still sing, right?***

**with the leftover warblers who are in ohio. :)**

**but i can’t wait to hear you sing again! there’s a reason why your team won nationals in high school.**

***Undoubtedly! It’s all me. I am Rachel Barbra Berry, after all.***

***Ah sorry but I’m retiring from our chat. I need to gargle some sparkling water, I heard it helps with opening up the vocal chords!***

**don’t worry, i’m not offended. gargle away. :)**

***Alright, see you, Blaine~***

 

Blaine scrolled through his phone but seeing that Mike wasn’t back had him feel antsy. The text he had sent Rachel bore a pit into his stomach and Blaine sighed. Mike was crucial to him. Blaine couldn’t put a finger on it, but...

 

**you’re one of the greatest people i’ve ever met.**

**and you’re really important to me.**

**and i’ve never felt this connection between anyone else before. is that weird? it should be weird but i don’t feel anything weird about it at all; it’s comfortable. a comfo-weird.**

**if you’re wondering what brought this on, think of it as rush of sentimentality at night.**

**anyway, i’m blathering. i have homework to get to, so i’m turning my phone off for the night.**

**good night.**

//

 

Mike wiped off the last of the water droplets that clung to his collarbone and gave himself an once-over in the mirror. Noting that there was a tiny patch of scruff coming in at the bottom of his chin, Mike decided to leave it be for tonight and take care of them in the morning. His mother had said that she preferred him clean-shaven; she also said girls would like him better too. Mike thought what it would be for boys, but banished thinking about it in depth as he wasn’t ready to admit anything more than his little attraction to Blaine. Blaine was cute, that was it.

Blaine was broken when he cried,  Blaine was haughty when he argued, Blaine was so radiant when he smiled, and that was it.

What a silly thing to think about.

He hid his blushing face into the fluffy caress of the towel. Mike was glad that he lived alone; if he had a roommate, the guy would surely laugh at how Mike was acting, by how flustered he was from just imagining Blaine’s little scrunched-up grin. This was inarguably pathetic.   

Mike didn’t know if Blaine would even consider him an option. A gay male and a... (bisexual? Pansexual? Questioning?) another male could be friends and the gay male could never have romantic inclinations, that line of thought that the gay male would always develop a crush was presumptuous and also a shade homophobic. Mike remembered some of the straight guys in his high school trying not to be “too close” in the case that happened. What jerkwads. Mike was happy to hear that they now worked the car wash at the highway gas station.

Sighing, he slipped on a new pair of boxers and looked at himself in the mirror. If he did like Blaine, how could he show it? Someone as one-of-a-kind as Blaine was hard to impress. To make himself known, Mike had limited options and the scenarios often culminated in him kissing Blaine’s nice, ever rosy lips—Mike smacked his forehead to forcibly stop himself. A part of him wished he had never invited Blaine to have pizza because now his overachieving mind—with its brilliant memory—catalogued all of Blaine’s “happy noises” with pitch-perfect clarity. His temperature shot up and he chucked his towel into a hamper.

Sometimes, Mike hated his innate talents.

He tried his best to quell it but Blaine was the only thought his mind would permit and Mike spearheaded an emergency council meeting for his myriad of (what he thought were) healthy brain cells to cease formulating ideas about the boy who sat in front of him in his sophomore lit class because there was no way in figurative hell that Blaine Anderson would ever be interested in him a romantic light. It took a second for the committee to convene and agree. His conclusion made, Mike wandered into his living room and leaned on a wall, pointlessly eyeing his mess of papers on his coffee table.

If his mother was here, she would have a fit at the sight. She’d pick one of the papers up and unfold the crumply pages—to have Mike snatch it up and make excuses saying that it wasn’t finished yet. She’d return with a sly grin and ask, “Who’s this person you have a crush on?”

Crush.

As sad as it was, Mike was penning poems. About Blaine. Anderson. In the beginning, he pardoned the activity as a “mind-freeing warm-up” exercise prior to hunkering down and really getting at his poetry project, but when it came to the end of the night and the start of winter’s dawn, Mike had spent his entire time going through Martha Stewart’s decor website to discover the perfectly matching shade to describe Blaine’s unfathomably infinite eyes. What color were they? They were dominated with flickers of green and brown but somehow shone bronzed fire with the _right_ lighting... Mike’s present classification for them was dappled gold, but even that wasn’t sufficient.

He groaned and his hot hand smudged across the surface of his cheek, dragging the skin down until Mike’s hand slipped right off his face. Hurrying into his bedroom to get some needed sleep and forget this, Mike sat on the side of his bed and reached for the phone on his pillow. Three new texts surprised him, the alert not showing the full phrase but it showed that Blaine must have been eager about something. Quieting a chuckle from his throat, Mike unlocked his phone and scanned the texts.

His hands were dry but the phone dropped from his paralyzed hold, bouncing once on the mattress. Mike stared at the phone’s fading backlight; his outside appearance was stony but inside, he zipped to and fro in a whirlwind. What did the texts mean? And the conversation at the pizza parlor earlier? Was it—could it be?

A grin broke out from the stupor on Mike’s face and he hastily grabbed at his phone, thumbs raring to tap:

 

**Blaine, I need to tell you somethin|**

 

—when his cognizant mind yanked back the reins controlling his motor skills, yelling, “Woah there!” to which Mike stopped. Next, he used his brain and tapped the back button until the message box was empty.

Blaine Anderson was single-handedly the most unique kid in all of the Midwestern United States and Mike was going to show how he felt via text message? Mike could picture the letdown on Blaine’s face, and the image alone had Mike worry his bottom lip. Did Blaine ever have someone confess their feelings for him? Maybe not, Blaine did say that he was too involved in being not wrapped in the affairs of the Andersons and the possibility that Mike would be his first confession was high—and Mike was going to do it over text message?

But there was the chance that others had caught onto Blaine’s charm and honestly easy-to-love personality behind that cool and somber Anderson facade. Did Blaine even give anyone his time? And if he did, they probably were Dalton guys, weren’t they? Rich in money and power and status, they must’ve been showy with their affections.

Mike felt his smile wither. He didn’t do big gestures of affection. Hell, his girlfriend in high school complained that she didn’t even know if Mike was in love with her because he couldn’t express his emotions well. He didn’t express his surprise and disappointment well when she broke it off the day of his graduation, citing their soon-to-be long-distance as the ending factor. Mike remembered he ate a lot of consoling ice cream that night and felt sick the day after, waking up from a nightmare about her sunshine-hot white-blonde hair.

He slowly descended, falling onto his bed covers so that the springs underneath squeaked not. It was time to plan and gather himself. There must be something he could do. Call him old-fashioned but his mother had taught him to be personal when it came to glorious self-discoveries such as this. It didn’t have to be grand and large-scale; Mike could do something that was more his style: close and intimate, like a shared secret. A thought presented itself, clearing its throat and fixing its tie, shy and adorable like its inspiration. With that idea in mind, along with a few others (again, drifting back to that gleaming smile), Mike deviated into abstract sleep.

The following morning in Professor Ashbury’s sophomore lit class, Mike cursed that stupidly Blaine-like thought that had entered his mind last night and decided to act squatter. The sticky notes fluttered in his hand and Blaine’s desk sat in front of him, startlingly intimidating when it wasn’t much different from the desk next to it. Mike rushed in early and now could see other students trickling into the room, it was now or never.

It took half a second to slap the one paper under Blaine’s desk, Mike’s fingers narrowly missing a chewed up piece of dried bubblegum, and Mike scrambled away to his row, heart thudding as he trusted the gummy strip of tack to hold onto his note until it would be safely transferred to its recipient. Mike nevertheless shook his leg, his own seat creaking an awful amount until a studying girl beside him bitingly snapped, “Quit it.”

“Sorry,” Mike mumbled at the vicious glare and wiped the sweat of his palms onto his pants. Where was Blaine? It was three minutes to class, normally the straight-A student would arrive before Mike, his nose buried in Tennyson or another book of an equally (in Mike’s opinion) pompous literary figure. In that second, as if summoned by Mike’s imagination into reality, Blaine appeared, right on the dot as the bell rang. He waved his greeting before dropping into his noiseless seat. Mike let out a sigh and then held a different breath as sweat beaded on the side of his forehead.

Twenty minutes into class, Blaine’s familiar hand nudged into Mike’s space, extending to smooth a wrinkle off Mike’s right shoulder. He had let it slide before as Blaine had often fixed the manner of his clothes but today Mike couldn’t. His nerves wouldn’t allow it. Mike twisted in his seat, his left hand snatching on Blaine’s palm; the other’s expression was of wordless surprise when Mike braved a look. Blaine’s cheeks colored when Mike’s thumb brushed into the heart of Blaine’s palm.

“Check underneath your desk,” Mike found himself whispering and immediately stammered in sequence, “if you h-haven’t. Bye.”

Letting go of Blaine’s hand, Mike spun forward again, the girl next to him squinting her eyes in a scowl at the chair’s shrill squeals.  

 

//

 

Blaine was confused by what Mike meant by checking underneath his desk and, while Ashbury was turned to the chalkboard, craned down to see. A bunch of littered gum was a commonplace sight but there was also a bright yellow sticky note. Interest risen, Blaine pulled it off and read what it said. The scrawl was unmistakably Mike’s and it said:

 

_waning_

_i love the shape of crescents_

_the big upturned ones in your lips_

_the indents dipped in your cheeks_

_the lines chasing a laughter in your eyes_

_where stars live._

 

Blaine blinked once after five minutes. What was this? A poem? More specifically, a poem with an actual title and actually... _nice_. It was pleasant and caused his mouth to crescent. It wasn’t a long poem but brevity was the soul of wit, as what Shakespeare transcribed. However Blaine couldn’t stop re-reading the poem over and over, the five lines felt so fresh that each passing through felt new. Oh, it was good. Better than good.

He paused and felt a sickness to his stomach. Suddenly he felt warm and weak and the sticky note slid onto the surface of the table. Mike improved quite a bit, didn’t he? Well, of course, a voice in Blaine’s mind rationalized. Mike had written over sixty poems in a span of two weeks. Careful practice did bring results. Just at the moment, Mike turned around and smiled that irresolute smile, which was part question and part hope, the smile he always smiled whenever he was nervous and waiting for Blaine to notice...

Oh, Blaine noticed.

He noticed it perfectly. Now what he didn’t know was how he could answer Mike.

 

// 

 

He was nervous as hell during the start, the middle, and thank all the powers that may be, the end of class. Mike had pulled on a blank mask through the lesson but his insides were melting into a goop and it was way too hot for a January class with an out-of-order heater. Little by little, Mike shed off his scarf and jacket and had three of his ten cardigan buttons loose. Why was it sweltering?

The rest of the class was packing up and Blaine was as well, acting like he did every other lit class that Mike felt even more nervous when he approached the guy. Don’t fidget, Mike scolded himself when Blaine’s attention fell on him.

“H-hey,” Mike said. Talk about the smoothest peanut butter brand.

“Hi,” Blaine replied back gently, curiously tilting his head. Mike was pensive until that contagious, sunshiny grin overtook Blaine’s features and he mirrored it willingly, to which Blaine giggled and lightly poked Mike’s shoulder. “What? Why are you smiling?”

‘Cos of you, Mike thought and raised his voice to ask, “did you... see it? What do you think? I know, it’s n-not my usual style and it’s kind of out there but, what did you think? Did you like it?”

Mike expected Blaine to be quiet, to say his abjurations (“Thank you but no thank you, Mike.”), and to leave Mike behind in the class but Blaine didn’t do any sort of thing. Blaine Anderson stood solidly, unmoving except for his mouth.

“I liked it, a lot if I had to admit it. It’s very good, Mike.” Blaine’s finger came up into a point and wagged in the air. “No, scratch that, it’s brilliant.” Blaine grinned and clasped his hands together.

No, Mike argued, Blaine’s _entire personality_ was brilliant.

Blaine gestured that they walk out so they did, almost dream-like, giving Mike a state of mind like he was floating or cloud-walking. Blaine inquired how long it took Mike to write it and Mike chuckled and said it wasn’t very long and that he could come up with another as he had found his muse. Blaine shook his head and laughed, waging that Mike possibly couldn’t have another by tomorrow.

Mike smirked and proclaimed that Blaine shouldn’t make a losing bet.

 

// 

 

Blaine discovered another sticky note underneath his desk the next lit class. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Blaine squeaked and took this one to read as well. A flush of warmth exuded in his cheeks and the back of his neck as Blaine’s eyes met each word of Mike’s new poem.

 

_cafune_

_someday i’d like to wreck your hair._

_mess it up as if the wind ruthlessly swept by but then—_

_i’d next detangle every knot_

_with fingers like the softest breezes whispering_

_how gorgeous you look_

_whilst you pout and disagree._

_i guess it’s for_

_my own self-indulgence_

_to picture running my hands through your hair_

_hoping they’ll get lost on their way._

 

His own hands absentmindedly ruffled the back of his hair, Blaine gasping in bewilderment when he checked his reflection on his phone’s screen to see wayward wiry hair sweeping out from his orderly style. Blaine kept on self-consciously touching it as he and Mike shared lunch together, his own embarrassment on his messy hair the main event that he missed the way Mike’s eyes never wandered off from those stray loose curls.

Blaine figured that each poem was rather tame and if he tried his best, he could ignore the effect they were having on him until there was this one from Mike that behested Blaine’s volatile reaction. When Blaine finished reading the poem, his eyes bore right into the dark ink of the pen, staring until his vision went fuzzy, and snapped back each word into sharp focus.

 

_falling_

_if i could kiss the faultline of your lips_

_i’d let them part under mine_

_i’d create a fissure and desire what’s underneath_

_even if it’s broken_

_the geiger is set to a maximum magnitude_

_when your force crushes into mine_

_and it shatters me completely_

_but i’ve grown to long for your aftershock_ s

 

No, Blaine couldn’t do it anymore. When Mike called out for him at the finish of class, Blaine stomped right out and ignored the texts coming in from the troubling Mike Chang. This was the best thing, Blaine tried to convince himself in bed when his phone buzzed again that night.

If he distanced himself from Mike, perhaps this disgusting feeling would go away.

 

//

 

It was the weekend and Mike was at home, moping on the couch. Puck had called him an hour earlier, asking Mike to party however Mike obviously refused.

“What, you got a date with Blaine?” Puck’s snort echoed in the receiver and Mike, thoroughly pissed, ended the call after snarling out a “fuck no.”

Puck’s incoming text a minute after comprised of a wink and an excessively typoed message that Mike translated from Puckermanese as, “Go get some ass, Chang! Don’t forget the lube! Gay dudes love lube.”

Mike threw his phone to a side of his couch.

He wasn’t thinking about Blaine in _that_ way at all! Sure, Blaine was good-looking and his physical attributes were becoming more and more attractive as the days went by but the way Mike felt about Blaine was... it made him sick, kind of dumb, and so happily serene. Currently it made him miserable at best.

Blaine was ignoring him for the past week. Mike couldn’t understand it. Was Blaine busy? What was the other thinking? Sighing, Mike decided to go for a run to clear his head, choosing to return home when he was sound of mind.

Mike returned home well off into the evening, his brain still muddled.

 

//

 

There were only five days left and Blaine’s pencil ripped through the surface of the notebook. Tearing the sheet from his book, Blaine’s hands roughly balled it up and tossed it aside. The paper ball landed next to one of its brethren, the group of pearly-white and blue-lined squished globes stared up toward their careless master, who again cast away another to join them.

Why was this so difficult?

“Why is this so difficult?” Blaine exclaimed to the stuffy room and no one answered. He had a major bout of poet’s block and there was less than a week to the project. It was frustrating, his poems that he had been slugging out were slop that wasn’t good enough to feed pigs. Plus he was wasting a lot of paper.

“Damn it,” Blaine muttered and pushed away from his desk, his chair sliding back so that Blaine could slump in it properly like a stretched-out starfish. This was an unfamiliar thing to happen to him, Blaine’s foot idly kicked at a paper ball and he picked up his gaze from the floor to his desk.

He needed a break, to get far as possible from this state of disorganization and find his zen. Blaine had to find his happy place, the location where he felt the most like himself and life’s stresses didn’t wear his bones. Picture it, Blaine forced his breathing to be even and tightly clamped down on his eyes, if he could imagine the safe zone, it was strange that the “where” was a “who”.

Blaine grumbled and spun on his chair. He wanted to talk to Mike so badly. He didn’t want to talk to Rachel or his brother, who were the others in Blaine’s meager attempts at friendship. Deciding on his course of action, Blaine shot up from his seat and grabbed his phone.

 

// 

 

Unique was heedful when Blaine had approached her in text—his first text to her since they traded numbers as per one of Professor Ashbury’s “get-to-know-one-another” assignments in the beginning of the semester—and asked if she could study with him at the cafe near the college.

**y not the library?**

 

She had probed in rebuttal.

 

**banned. don’t ask why. so yes or no? i’ll supply the notes for lit.**

 

Blaine was an entertaining guy, if Unique had to put it differently. Maybe that was the reason why she humored him by genuinely showing up at Cafe de Lima, a popular hangout for coffee-drinking intellectuals who all wore the same outfit of tweed and plaid, bought from sworn vintage stores, modeled clothes eerily similar yet with smidgens of discernable changes that they would say something along the lines of, “Great outfit, man.” One guy walking by her arranged the angle in which his thick, black-framed, lens-free glasses rested on his nose. There was cello and banjo playing over the speakers and the woman singing wasn’t singing at all. She was moaning plaintively about a rowboat.

My God, Unique wanted to get the hell out of here.

Coupled with the rather fun ambiance, Blaine was buttoned up, incommunicative like a tight-lipped clam in the chilliest Arctic waters. In simple terms, he was bugging the hell out of Unique and she didn’t want to wait for anything that could be done fast.

“Alright, spit it out. You are not worth wasting my time and I will leave if you continue to look like a poster child for an antidepressant advertisement. Sigh once more, I dare you.”

“That’s borderline offensive,” disputed Blaine who finally glanced at her with a small smile that was favorable. Maybe there would be a breakthrough tonight, all thanks to Unique, the second Oprah.

“What’s offensive is the smell here, I know the place is going for earthy but this is just _dirty._ I think I saw a rat scuttle near the counter.” Unique dropped the corners of her mouth in displeasure.

Blaine laughed in three tiny chuckles at that and uncrossed his legs, giving Unique an expectant, “here’s-the-deal” atmosphere as he then placed three notebooks on the table. He had a Ziploc bag in his hands, and in the bag was pile of highlighter-yellow sticky notes. Unique raised a brow when Blaine began to peel open the bag.

She asked, hiding her curiosity the best she could by evening out her voice, “What are those? Cheat sheets?”

Blaine’s derisive snort answered it for her. Of course Blaine wouldn’t cheat. He passed them to her and it felt private, very secret, that Unique checked over her shoulder and brought the first note so close to her face that she could smell the pasty-glue of the paper. She pursed her lips when she read over the first line. Woah. She was not expecting this. It was a poem. A love poem. A love poem, which was pretty darn good and gave Unique a flutter in her stomach. Wait, was Blaine coming onto her? Oh my god, Blaine was coming onto her. As much as Blaine was _Fine_ with an unavoidable _F_ , she was certain he was gayer than straight-up (or in this case, gay-up) making out sloppy-style with another dude. But the poem, there was no joke about it, it seemed to burn in her hands with passionate desire that her fingers could catch on fire.

“Ohmigod. Are you coming onto me?” She squeaked out in apprehension.

“What?! No!” Blaine reacted, appearing vaguely irritated and horrified. Well, excuse you, Blaine Anderson. Unique Adams was a catch and for the record she didn’t like him anyway. Hmph. After that uproar and awkward culmination, he gave her another and another, and as Unique read each poem, she felt there was an underlying story she was missing, something true and poignant, large-scale than the sliver reflected in the array of yellow Post-Its. It was nothing short of fantastic and Unique eyed the talent with jealousy that she quickly abandoned because she wasn’t a person who was chronically envious.

“These are literally the best poems I’ve read,” Unique acknowledged, gathering all the sticky notes into a dainty square. Blaine grimly nodded and stayed silent. Okay, what had gotten into him? Unique rolled her eyes and tapped Blaine’s arm. “Blaine, I said these are literally the best poems I’ve read, why are you upset? You’re acting like I ran over your dog and then reversed.”

“Borderline offensive,” Blaine murmured and sighed, crossing his arms and leaning back into his cushy plum-colored club chair. He then blurted out, “I didn’t write them.”

That was a shock. Unique pursed her lips in light of this and Blaine groaned in compliance, tilting his head to rest over the knuckles of his loose fist. His expression was stormy as he next divulged with tiny bit of contempt, “It’s Mike Chang’s.”

“ _Mike Chang’s?!_ ” Unique hissed out the name and Blaine visibly winced. Oh hell no. “Blaine, I’m a gonna say this to be nice, you two have a rivalry and it’s cute and annoying like two toddlers having play fights, but this? Takes the whole goddamn cupcake. When did you resort to stealing Mike Chang’s work?”

If that didn’t light Blaine’s fuse, it might have well set off the entire Fourth of July fireworks. Turned out, it immolated a can of hairspray which triggered the Chinese Fireworks Festival where a falling spark landed in a nuclear waste factory and the result was an explosion of catastrophic world-ending levels, and Blaine kept all of that destructive, harmful energy in as best he could. His entire being was minutely shaking to control it and his eyes had that manic glow to it but Blaine was silent. Unique held her tongue, feeling slightly ashamed.

A second later Blaine informed her, in a deadly quiet tone, “I would never do that.” Afterward, he took a sip of his coffee and seemed to have relaxed. For one, his fingernails stopped digging into his cup’s cardboard sleeve.

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry,” Unique sheepishly apologized. She knew when she was wrong. “So, how did you get these?”

Blaine colored and nervously reached out to take the square of the notes, sliding them back into the Ziploc, and avoided of her question. But he did reply, cold steel coating his words. “Mike placed them under my desk, been doing it for the past week now. He’s the one who notified me of them in the first place.”

Unique couldn’t believe her ears. Ohmygod. Oh my goodness gracious, dear God. Mike was basically the sweetest guy she ever met (Unique also had him in AP Physics and met him in high school) and he had a crush on elitist Blaine? Unique decided that the “love-was-blind” cliché had its moments. So to backtrack, all those happy-sighing, chest-warming, smile-inducing little love letters were addressed to Blaine? Unique now couldn’t believe reality. It made Unique smile as she sighed, “That’s so adore—”

“—Annoying, I know.” Blaine gritted out, frowning deeply.

Wait. What the fuck was Blaine on.

“What the fuck are you on.” Unique stated. Blaine stared at her like she was the one on crack. Unique raised her arms in an exaggerated “come on” because she did not honestly understand how Blaine Anderson worked.

“Can’t you tell what’s going on? He’s better than me. He’s outranked me, showing off by putting all these notes under my desk and asking me if I read them and if I liked them, and of course I did, I told him that. And how could you not? They’re genius.” Blaine babbled, looking so stricken and lost that Unique could not respond; she didn’t know what to say.

“He’s going to take part in the Poetry and Creative Writing Scholarship. And he’s going to win my prize, receive my scholarship, and take my spot. I won’t get into the Ivy Schools, and everyone knows it’s even harder transferring during Junior year! I shouldn’t have helped him, it’s a goddamn _ironic folly_ whereas he’s off doing everything wonderful I sought for, that I have to be stuck in miserable State for the rest of my _failed_ collegiate life.”

Unique slapped Blaine across the face. It was short, snappy, and stung. Blaine hadn’t been expecting it all and neither did Unique, her hand was prickling and she rubbed at it to soothe the kinks. The boy’s face was angled to the side by the impact and his fingers lightly stroked the reddening skin in disbelief. Unique felt fat, indignated tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, wobbling on the edge of spilling. His gaze was on hers, a dizzy mix of impressed and afraid, and Unique had a large twinge of guilt that she harshly swallowed down to speak.

“Blaine, you are such a smart yet horrible person." She couldn't stop trembling and a tear streaked down her face.

"You’re always thinking that everyone’s below you, that we’re dumbasses because we live in Lima. I’m painfully aware that we’re far from cosmopolitan! Do you think I don’t notice the way people look at me? Think I’m a freak?” Unique flung back unapologetically. “Even the so-called brainiacs here think I’m batshit. Like you, how are you doing, _buddy._ ” She mockingly winked and blew a kiss at a guy who had been blatantly gaping at her ever since she walked in; the hipster turned away quickly to cradle his drink. Blaine was also narrowing his eyes balefully at the back of the unwanted viewer.

Sighing and dabbing at her eyes with a napkin, Unique’s voice lowered, now gentler. “Education shouldn’t make people high and mighty. It’s about the learning, not about where you learned. My family all graduated from Community, and they teach me new things everyday. They were so proud of me when I got into State, and I told them they shouldn’t have been, but it’s all ingrained in everyone’s heads.” She rolled her warm cup of green tea latte in her hands.

“I know I won’t get into Harvard or whatever, and you and Mike are the best contenders for it. But is it really the end if you don’t get in? Is the place we go to so appalling? If you think all you get from school is status, then you’re an idiot and I hate you.” Unique stuck out her tongue and placed her cup down. Dejectedly, Unique threaded her fingers together, sick with that horrible sense of self-loathing.

“Are you ashamed of being friends with me?” She quietly asked. Blaine tensed, his expression undecipherable. “I’ve got no status educationally, and hell, my status in my orientation is considered illogical by some folks. I’m quite opposite of what you want in an ideal friend. I'm not Ivy Material.”

Blaine wasn’t saying anything and Unique kept her head down at her feet. Her shoes were Jimmy Choo’s, the first and finest pair of heels that her family splurged to congratulate her when she was crowned Miss Scandals (though they made her swear not to go there anymore until she turned 21). It was the darkest, most shadowed hue of violet that glimmered blazing amethyst when stage lights hit it in the perfect angle. She pivoted her ankle and it sparkled when it caught the light. In comparison to Blaine’s brown shoes, hers were jewels and his were rocks. But where it all counted, she was shit and he was _the shit_. Figured.

Unique wondered why she even were friends with someone as wonderfully ingenious and terribly devious like Blaine. Perhaps she was drawn to his boldness that he could dish out what the world gave him and made those life-given lemons into a goddamn gourmet tart. But Blaine would be a lonely baker, the creator of tantalizing treats, who had no one to share them. Maybe that was it. Unique knew Blaine didn’t want friends, but she knew he needed a friend.

There was a shuffle from the figure in front of her and she looked up to see Blaine’s pained expression. The boy sighed and ran his fingers over his bow tie, grasping it in his grip and crinkling the clean triangles into mush. Dropping his hand, he then leaned forward in his seat.

“No, I’m not ashamed.” Blaine said seriously, reached out to touch her hand and keep his hold there. “And I am sorry.”

This was the first time in the history of her friendship with Blaine Anderson where Unique actually heard a sincere apology made of the words “I am” and “sorry”. There was no weaseling out, no constructed witty banter that hinted the notion. This was distinctly I'm Sorry.

“Took your sweet time,” Unique bitterly choked out, knowing that it was mean of her to do so, but did so because it made her feel better.

Blaine agreed with a droop of his head and offered a quirked smile when he raised it. “The reason why I took long is because I was trying to figure out why you considered me your friend. I’m pretty much obnoxious.”

“First step to recovery is admitting it.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Blaine whispered, still holding on. Unique nodded and brushed off the hand because she didn’t want to start any rumors—holding hands in a coffee shop with close-proximity whispering, it was pure fodder—and for the tabloids’ notes, it was him who came onto her. Blaine went on, “And I don’t think my time here was wasted, or will be, not anymore. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.”

“Jeez, Blaine.” Unique laughed despite herself. “You look like you accidentally set my wig on fire. It’s cool now. Miss Unique doesn’t hold grudges, it’s bad for the complexion.” Unique flicked her hair over her shoulder and grinned brightly. “Most importantly, you, read over those poems again and actually analyze while I study.”

Blaine frowned, tilting his adorably clueless face and dug into his seat, staring determinedly at Mike’s poems. Please sink in, Unique prayed and opened her lit textbook.

 

//

 

He was late. Well, "late" in his own idea of tardiness, which was two minutes to the start of class. Locking his car as fast as he could, Mike stepped over the dreary mud-slush and made it into the halls without soaking shoes. There was nothing much to expect from a January day after that and Mike briskly directed his feet to his class. To Mike's shock, Blaine was waiting outside the door and said hello to him as if the week of solitude before never happened.

Mike was tempted to ignore Blaine as the other had done to him but couldn't and his chest surged with the simple joy of having Blaine speak to him, even if it was short. When they entered the class together, Blaine surprised him again, passing the higher row to sit on the shitty seat on the lower rung. Mike was about to ask what it meant but Brittany was ogling at them so he hastily sat on the desk seat, purposely ignoring her side glances.

"Mike, Blaine left you a little something-something." Brittany winked and kept on angling her eyes down that Mike gave up and checked underneath his desk because if he didn't, he was sure that her head would fall off from the repetitive jerky motion.

It was a sticky note. Mike held his breath, ripped it from the bottom of the desk, and read it.

 

_Mike,_

_Stay after class?_

_I want to talk to you about something._

_Yours truly,_

_Blaine Anderson._

 

Ashbury was droning on but Mike wasn't listening. He was busy watching the back of Blaine's hair, remembering that he used to glare at the back of Blaine’s head whenever Anderson said something smart-alecky. He wondered if Blaine was as distracted as he was but noticed a pen making minute movements near the right of Blaine's body and rolled his eyes. Figured that Blaine would be so chill and Mike was the one wound up.

Mike sighed and squished his lips under the flat of his thumb bone and closed his eyes. His stomach was unsettled with nausea and dread. Wanting class to end, Mike frequented darting his eyes to the clock, the second hand taunting him with how long it took to move.

Mike wished for it to go faster and the second hand glibly declined, taking however long it wanted (which was a second) until there were no more seconds to the end of class and the bell signaled Mike's doom. Mike hurriedly wished for the time to rewind but it was too late. How ironic. He was about to get up from his seat when Blaine suddenly turned around and shook his head.  Following the silent command, Mike sunk back into his chair, wishing that he was back in the shitty seat because at least that seat would be able to murmur his anxiety with him. Mike’s leg shook in blurring tempo as the class began to empty out.

 

//

 

Ashbury smirked, silently collecting her handbag and a file folder, exiting her class. Her kitten heels clunked on the floor as she did a spin and locked the door to her room from the outside. People could leave but getting in was a different tale. Today was a Thursday. On Thursdays, Cornelius Frund would strike up a conversation when he came down the hallway after his morning class of Calculus 201, and ask her to lunch, his appetence to her intelligence and aged beauty apparent to the entire faculty.

"Not today, Cornelius," was Ashbury's usual indurated remark but today as she spied Mr. Frund, a tome of calculus under his thick arm, she toyed with the gall of saying the contrary. She smiled when his grin stretched the puffy gray mustache and made his glasses rise a half-inch over his pewter eyes in his salutations.

Ashbury blamed the infectious rantipole of her students and looped her bony arm over his snugly and said, "I know a palatable Italian deli not too far from here, if you would so like to join me."

Frund nodded his head with quite the vigor for a sixty-four year old man, his jowls jiggling in a bumbling laugh in response to a dry anecdote about Professor Wood's discharge from the faculty as Ashbury lead him far away from her sophomore lit class.

 

//

 

Blaine had read each one of Mike's poems again in class while doing his work. His stomach had a pressing twinge every time he finished one, and one had him stop for a moment so he could close his eyes and relax for some distracting reason. The air was warm that he unbuttoned his shirt and snuck his bow tie into his bag, and it grew unbearably hot when he realized he and Mike were the only two left in the large lecture hall.

Blaine stood up from his seat, gathering the sticky notes into a pile and was startled when his seat squealed that he dropped them all to the floor. "Oh shit," Blaine muttered, face turning red when he crouched to pick them up, aided by a second pair of tanned hands with talented fingers who scooped the rest up. Blaine saw the polite smile on Mike's face and his own mouth forgot to say thanks until they were both upright.

"Thanks," Blaine whispered.

Mike raised a palm. "Not a problem... So..."

"So—?" Blaine raised a brow.

"The note—"

"Oh! Right, t-the note—"

"Blaine—"

"Mike—"

The both of them stared at each other incredulously at their poor conversational skills and laughed, easing a bit of the tension. Right, the thing. The thing he wanted to talk to Mike about. Blaine unceremoniously dumped the rest of the poems onto Mike's hands, causing Mike's eyes to widen in surprise.

"They're too well-written. I couldn't make any edits, congratulations." Blaine said. "Here you go, you can choose whichever one for Professor Ashbury. I'm sure they'd get top marks."

"...w-what?" said Mike, cocking his head to scan over his sticky notes. Blaine blinked uncertainly up at his friend. Wasn't this what Mike wanted, to have Blaine take a look so that he could hand one of the poems in tomorrow for the project?

"Aren't they for the project?" Blaine asked and Mike's eyes got even rounder and oddly, upset.

"I, um," Mike muttered and was shaking his head, body locked in tight as he tried to step a little back from Blaine to which Blaine stepped in closer, wanting to know what was bothering his friend.

"Mike, what's up?" Mike shook his head and raised a hand to have Blaine let it go but Blaine was stubborn. "Come on, be honest with me." Blaine pouted and crossed his arms. "You're always honest with me." Mike was sighing with his free hand scratching at his hair. His expression looked strained that Blaine's own chest hurt and he couldn't help frowning as well.

"Please?" Blaine begged and observed how Mike froze. A gulp was heard, and Mike looked at him, eyes shining accompanied by the appearance of that smile—anticipating yet optimistic, a question and its hope of being answered.

"I wrote them for you." Mike confessed.

 

// 

 

Blaine's face turned strawberry in a split second and all was quiet.

Mike silently gulped. Trepidation built in the grooves of his hands, lined his forehead; it was strange as he was standing as still as he could be and yet felt like he was running a marathon. He was waiting for a reply of sorts, wishing it was quick since the air between them had thinned and Mike sucked in breaths too tiny for his aching lungs.

Mike remembered a time not so long ago where he wished his rival _Anderson_ , with his exorbitantly endless explanations and counters-debates, would be stunned into silence by no one else but himself. But as it presently occurred, Mike wanted to take it back. It felt too unnatural now, not when Mike had become accustomed to _Blaine’s_ voice. Mike wanted to hear Blaine: an answer, a breath, he could even tell Mike to fuck off. Blaine devoid of sound was abnormal and wrong, and although Blaine looked, standing deer-like on its first legs, off-guard and unsure, he remained physically striking—however Mike knew fear (more like acquainted with, as it had been bubbling inside him, like champagne uncorked) and Mike knew shock. Since Blaine’s surprise lingered, it was telltale that his confessions were airplanes finally landing after several delays.

“I’m sorry,” Mike blurted when Blaine opened his mouth, not wanting to lose his chance to apologize while he could.  Digging his nails into his palms, he stammered out, “I didn’t know that you didn’t know.”

“Mike, I’m s—” and Mike cut away the sound by lifting up a hand to pause Blaine. Because now Blaine was sorry, apologizing to him, and Mike gritted his teeth and closed his eyes tight because he never desired Blaine’s apology and presently, pity.

He hadn’t realized he was covering his eyes with a hand when Blaine’s hand, soft fingers tentatively dragging Mike’s hand down, gripped his palm solidly.

 

//

 

“I said, ‘I’m surprised that you actually beat me in something.’” Blaine's voice was clear and soft and surprised himself.

Blaine wondered when exactly Mike Chang crept underneath his skin and somehow, became a part of who he was. But here he was, an indispensable part of Blaine's life that had Blaine physically ache when he ignored Mike for a week. God, why did he even do that? That was so stupid of him, to be jealous of Mike's talent like that. But that raised a question, what exactly was Mike to him?

Usually Blaine was known for his quick decision but this question was haunting, it wasn't something he could make an assumption and roll with, no. He didn't know what exactly Mike was, but what Blaine understood was that what he wanted with Mike was closeness.

“I don’t know what I feel for you too, it’s like an itch I can’t reach, not yet anyway, and since I let you in, you’ve made yourself welcome.” Blaine said softly, gingerly bringing down Mike's hand lower so that there was no barrier between them.

He closed his eyes and admitted, “I can’t kick you out.”

It was true. Mike had his home inside of Blaine and now there wasn't room for others.

“W-what I want,” Blaine felt breathless, “is…”

What did he want? Did he crave money, like his uncles? Did he wish for freedom, like his brother? Was he hungry for elite status, to be regarded as Blaine Anderson? Blaine didn't know what he wanted, and was confounded by everything and needed a moment to himself and sort his true desires. Did anyone ever ask him what he wanted?

Seeing that Mike was going to pass out from holding his breath for too long, Blaine said quickly, “I want time to try. I don’t think I, with you—not yet—but I want the chance to try.”

Mike didn't say anything and Blaine's heart sunk—disappointment was an old friend of Blaine's—but after a second's wait, Mike's lips split from the tight line and there was a tawny blush on the warm-toned skin, and gleaming megawatt beam that Blaine's eyes started prickling from the luminous person in front of him. He felt a throb in his chest, a breathless sensation but a good one. Blaine desired it.

"Can we try now?" Blaine noticed himself asking and coyly smiled at Mike, hoping the other got the hint. Mike's child-wide eyes, so illustrious in showing emotion, said resoundingly yes.

 

//

 

He nervously leaned over, blush deepening when his hands shook—

—resting onto the hemlines of dark jeans, he pushed forward on the tips of his toes, while his fingers—

—cupped his cheek and his heartbeat babbled when a cheek pressed into his palm—

—sweaty, nerves flaring, a warm breath over his mouth, lips—

—being the last thing he saw—

—without sight, all that remained were sound, smell, touch, taste.

It was gentle.

 

//

 

Blaine was sure he had never been kissed this lightly but it was a pleasant sensation as it made him focus, to hone on the slightly dry but plush texture of Mike's lips, the tiny warm puffs of breath that brushed over his skin, and the soft hold of Mike's strong hands on his waist. He sighed over their mouths and Mike in turn hummed, pressing in perfectly closer that Blaine leaned back onto his desk.

Surprisingly, the shrieking desk fell silent, as if knowing its noise would ruin the tender moment.

 

//

 

Mike was elated as they pulled away, longing to reach back and kiss Blaine again but didn’t, controlling his eagerness by speaking about other things. Once he told his secret, more spilled out, such as that if Blaine had never wrote that one sticky note poem at the start of the poetry project, Mike would have never gotten the idea of asking Blaine for help. Blaine looked so adorably clueless that Mike lost his resolve and his arms wrapped around Blaine’s frame again, holding Blaine close to him in a hug.

 

//

 

Blaine was confused by what Mike meant by the sticky note poem but he was next snuggled into Mike’s arms and his thoughts went incoherent.

 

//

 

{ Act V. Thus ended the comedy of errors.

_Very good work, Mr. Hudson. You have the highest single mark in the class! Have you ever thought of participating in our Poetry Competition? I believe you would excel._

Finn breathed out, the comments on the bottom of his poetry assignment gave him shivers every single time he read it over. Woah. Maybe he wasn’t so bad at this poetry stuff in the end! The one project saved his grades from the dismal literature essays he had to do in the previous term and his grade was now a solid B-. Man, his mom was gonna be proud. More importantly, his online pen pal, parsonskid, was going to be proud of him too! He could email the poem to him. But uh, of course Finn would maybe change the gender in the poem he sent in, he didn’t know if parsonskid liked him like that anyway.

The one sticky note he wrote changed everything.

The funny thing was, he didn’t even write it in Lit, he wrote it during Math and without thinking, stuck it under his seat. It was just that Professor Frund was so dull and made his head hurt with those letters multiplying with numbers business and that _parsonskid_ had sent him a photo before the class, and what a photo it was, with that nice, tight gray vest on him and pinstripe pants that made highways look short. Finn blushed and lightly tapped the side of his face. Jesus, Hudson, this is your first dude-crush and it is super sad, be a man and do something, an extremely macho voice in his head scolded him.

And maybe Finn should. Maybe he should just take charge and see where the situation landed him? His laptop beeped and the words “parsonskid is online” flashed in a window in the bottom-right corner. There he had it. Taking in a deep breath and a resounding gulp, Finn clicked open the chat screen, and as if on cue, parsonskid had sent him a greeting.

 

**parsonskid: Hello, Mr. Finn Hudson! how did your day go? : >**

**me: um pretty godo i think we got our poems back**

**me: good***

**parsonskid: Oh really! that’s excellent to hear!**

**me: yeah the proffessor said i got the highest mark in the class**

**me: i was suprised at that, i thought this other guy would get it**

**me: or this another dude**

**me: their kind of legends**

**parsonskid: Professor*, surprised*, they’re*. ; >**

**me: oh right! thanks, because of you i think i’m getting alot better :]**

**me: a lot***

**parsonskid: And legend, schmegend. you have hidden potential. i love it.**

**me: heheh thanks dude :D**

**parsonskid: What was your poem about? i know that you wanted to make it a secret and didn’t show me yet! i have to admit, i’m more than curious!**

 

Finn gulped. This was it. Do or die. More like, do and fail and parsonskid blocked him and that was the end of that short-lived, one-sided romance. He slowly typed back, each letter adding more panic inside him.

 

**me: here i’ll send it over**

 

**\--you have sent poem.docx to parsonskid--**

**\--parsonskid has accepted the file--**

 

Watching each byte downloading was the single most terrifying moment, enhanced by the long pause after it was done. Finn draped his head onto his palms, which was sweaty against his cheeks. A trill emitted from his speakers and he peeked from his fingers, dreading the reply.

 

**parsonskid: ...I don’t know if I’m screwing our friendship up by saying this.**

**parsonskid: But is this poem about me?**

**parsonskid: It could not even be about me and I’m just being self-absorbed.**

**parsonskid: People say that I tend to take things personally, is what I’m trying to say.**

**parsonskid: …**

**parsonskid: I don’t know what to say unless you tell me, Finn Hudson. did you write this with me in mind?**

**parsonskid: Finn?**

**me: hey**

**parsonskid: Hey back.**

**me: are you upset**

**parsonskid: No, are you?**

**me: no man i’m more like**

**me: nervous**

**me: like i have to go but i don’t have to pee**

**parsonskid: Um. okay.**

**me: hear me out i’m not done it’s a simile thing**

**me: the poem doesn’t cover it**

**me: the things i feel**

**me: about you.**

**me: there’s too much i haven’t said**

**me: but each word isn’t like right you know dude?**

**me: they haven’t made a word to describe you yet**

**me: they have some alright ones so far that i learned in english  
**

**me: like beautiful and intelligent**

**me: sophisticated**

**me: fascinating**

**me: and charismatic**

**me: but these words aren’t good enough because you’re above them**

**me: and they only graze the surface you know?**

**me: you’re kind of a big deal**

**me: whole another level type**

**me: and i like that about you**

**me: i wish i was smart enough to make a word that describes you perfectly**

**parsonskid: Finn, stop.**

**me: okay sorry dude**

**me: i got on a roll**

**me: sorry again please don’t be mad :[**

**parsonskid: I’m telling you to stop because I can’t look at my screen anymore without blushing. i might even be tearing up and it’s your fault, you lovable dork.**

**me: imaginary tissue? :]**

**parsonskid: Yes, please. thank you. :’ >**

**parsonskid: ...And I can’t believe you had the guts to say it before me. way to ruin my plans, finn! i was going to tell you soon too.**

**me: sorry that i beat you to it i guess i’m impatient**

**parsonskid: Yeah, yeah... you totally are. but it’s an endearing trait. <3**

**me: :]**

**parsonskid: Does this mean you sent in this poem to your professor?**

**me: yeah?**

**parsonskid: Sfksldjfsljs Finn!! that is really sweet and a bit embarrassing! i don’t know whether or not to kill or kiss you!**

**me: i like that last option if you want a second opinion!**

**parsonskid: Okay, I know we’ve said this before but promise to visit me in New York? you might have to deal with my friend and she’s super theater-dramatic but it’ll never be a dull moment!**

**me: that sounds awesome**

**me: and i always wanted to know why it’s called new york steak so if i can go i’m in :]**

 

**\--parsonskid has started video call--**

**\--you can turn on your own webcam, accept/decline?--**

 

**me: woah what’s up**

**parsonskid: I finished this one shirt for a project.**

**parsonskid: It’s see-through mesh. and i need a second opinion ; >**

 

**\--you accepted the video call--**

 

//

Finals were coming up in a few nerve-wrecking weeks and students had mainly three different ways of coping. One, the crammer would try to shove all the year’s worth of information in the course of the few days leading up to the final and would be easy to detect with their zombie groans and dark circled eyes. Two, the studier would spend each aching minute trying to help their crammer friends or worrying that they would suddenly get sick and bomb finals week and would take vitamin supplements and the leafy brain-food known as kale. Thirdly, the ones who all but gave up studying for finals week since they were doomed (or in rare cases, knew that finals would be a breeze), partied so hard they puked.

Blaine narrowly missed a projectile of yellow vomit and bumped into Mike in the process. Mike was completely disgusted as well, grimacing at the liquid dripping down the wall where Blaine had been standing in front of a second before.

“Jesus Christ, I wish I could travel back in time and punch myself in the face before my past self agreed to this,” Blaine grumbled, slightly relieved when Mike’s arm wrapped around his waist and hoisted him to jump over a passed-out drunk. Blaine frowned at the unconscious boy’s drooling face— it was only 8 PM, what a try-hard.  Blaine had been picking up some of Mike’s teenage vernacular along the way of their indescribable relationship and he thought that was an exemplary usage of the word. However he didn’t have much to cheer about since the booming music thundered in his ears and the air was suffocating hot from all the partygoers. Blaine gripped tightly onto Mike’s shoulder and tried to remember why he had agreed to this.

A day before, Mike had invited him to come to the last Puckerman Party of the school term, and although Blaine was perspicacious that the host of the party wasn’t a fan of him, Mike was the one who invited him and a small part of Blaine had always wanted to go to a no holds-barred, all-out drunken extravaganza that displayed the celebrations to Dionysus were still going strong. In contrast, Dalton parties were a precursor to high society soirees; they were conventionally stuffy since everyone attempted to come off mature beyond their age, and Blaine had to bite his tongue more than once from correcting the older students when they confused bull market while discussing the stock exchange.

When he had told Cooper earlier this night that he was going out to a party and would return late, his brother had quipped, “Puckerman’s?” Blaine was surprised by Cooper’s split second presumption but the elder commented that he respected a good party host, regardless of age.

“Watch it!” A girl, half-dressed, yelped when Blaine accidentally stepped on her maxi-skirt. The boy who had been occupied in her chest lifted his head up to say something that could barely be heard over the music. Blaine blushed at the nudity but before he could apologize, Mike swerved around a wall, taking Blaine with him. They skipped past the hollers and beer pong tables in the kitchen, the couples at the staircase, and arrived at the front of Puck’s room, where two beefy guards stood watch. Mike grinned and bumped fists with both of them and the door swung open for him, but when Blaine chanced one foot forward, a hand slammed into his chest, blocking the route.

“He’s with me, guys. Knock it off, would you?” Mike protested, reaching out to grab Blaine’s arm and gently guide him inside. Blaine smiled weakly as the two disapproving faces disappeared behind closed doors. Puck’s room smelled—good, to be honest. It looked like a bad remake of palatial quarters with the billowy curtains, harem of top-heavy girls, and large beanbags, but at least it didn’t have a rancid stench. Puck dropped one of his hands from a girl’s bare back to invite his friend plus one to sit. Mike sat on a green beanbag to Puck’s right. He next politely declined a harem girl’s advances, and patted the seat next to him that Blaine quickly took to avoid the stares from the other sitters. Such wasn’t so and he kept his gaze on Mike and occasionally at Puck, wishing his face wouldn’t heat up from the unwanted attention.

“Brochang and company, welcome to my bropalace.” Puck stated and the other bros around the beanbag circle yelled enthusiastically. Blaine was the only person clapping and he awkwardly stopped seconds later to let out a feeble shout to join the others.

Puck was satisfied by the noise and raised a hand to dissipate the noise to say, “First order of business, someone is on the first floor with some heavies. What’s the first decree in the Kingdom of Puck?”

“No heavies,” was the thunderous, droning answer.

Blaine raised an eyebrow at Mike, who whispered back that “heavies” were illegal substances that even Puck deemed “not fun but life-ruining”. Anyone caught with heavies at Puck’s Party were immediately kicked out and left to fend for themselves in college, where even a passing rumor that someone was abusing would issue a ticket to campus police.

Puck’s motto was to enjoy enhancers and not be their bitch. Blaine guessed that even Puckerman had his morals.

Signaled by Puck, two bros to excused themselves from the council to take care of the offender, leaving Mike, Blaine, four other bros, and the gang of flirty girls at the circle. There was a moment of silence until Puck groaned, stretching his arms way up, and blatantly ordered everyone to leave the room, except for his Brochang and Brohudson. The girls were scandalized for a second but shrugged, latching onto the leaving members giddily as they vacated the quarters. Blaine too was getting up but Mike’s hand curled around his wrist, holding him whilst Puck shook his head and commanded Blaine to sit down with a flick of his fingers.

When it was only the four of them, Puck sighed lowly. “As you all know, this is my last party of the year. Then it’s finals week and I’ll be the dead.” Finn too wore the solemn expression that was clouding Puck’s face at the moment. “Since Brochang is destined to be gone after the summer to Genius Land, I just wanted the thr—four of us to celebrate.”

Puck’s hand snuck behind his beanbag and uprooted a hefty bottle from the clutter of cans and glasses and plunked it down in the center of the circle. “This is my pride an’ joy, The Memo-Zapper, single malt whiskey, circa 1902. I’ve never opened it until now and I want us to be the first to taste this son of a bitch.” Puck drawled, already getting out shot glasses. Blaine anxiously gulped; he was terrible with alcohol and had the tolerance of a newborn. But he really wanted to be accepted at this promoted masculine council, as well as impress Mike (somewhat).

He was so nervous that he almost fumbled the shot glass passed into his hands and lifted it up to see it better. “Why does mine say, ‘Drink until she’s cute?’” Blaine asked, squinting his eyes to read it against the dim orange bulbs. Mike’s cup was labeled, “tanky motherfucker” whilst Finn’s was “you tried”.  Puck’s read, “the king, bitch!”

Puck popped the cork and grinned, lifting the round bottle so the light could shine through the rich amber liquid. He lowered it a second later to match everyone’s eyes, which were also engrossed in the mystical bottle. Even Blaine could feel the electricity of the moment, the aura that they were about to witness something legendary. “Here,” Puck said, taking Blaine’s glass and a Sharpie. He then scribbled out the S and threw it back to which Blaine caught it. Each by each, the shot glasses were filled with the whiskey and they all crashed their glasses together, swilling the golden drops as they drank it.

They all had only one shot of The Memo-Zapper and Blaine was sure he wasn’t the only one whose vision was spinning. His throat was constricted and his eyes were tearing up from the strength of the prickling heat smoldering in his throat. Puck was muddling the burn with another can of beer (Blaine doubted that would do the trick) whilst Finn tapped sloppily on his phone, face red and eyes glazed. Mike, on the other hand, appeared fine if not a tad wobbly, but it could have been from Blaine’s own unsteadiness. Mike was fixing the laces of his worn sneakers he always wore, and checked to see if he had gotten anything vile stuck on the side of his navy-black jeans. Mike’s hands dragged down the length of his well-fitting pants before they snapped up to fix the collar of his green button-up that peeked through a dark gray vest. Blaine wondered why he never noticed the way Mike wore his clothes since Blaine wholly approved of the trim style.

Feeling his face get hotter from probably the alcohol settling in, Blaine dozily peered over the trio again, not focusing on his surroundings. He gasped in surprise when Mike unceremoniously hauled him to his feet. Blaine scrabbled for a place to balance and ended up gripping the end of Mike’s shirt. He glared in annoyance whilst Mike laughed and helped Blaine upright and looked back, telling his friends that he and Blaine were turning in. At the statement Finn whined that they only sat down a second ago but Puck elbowed the tall boy roughly in the ribs and winked at Mike, wishing them both a fun night. Blaine didn’t understand what that meant and waved as they left.

Thinking that the night was over, Blaine buckled in the car, ready to text Coop that he was arriving home earlier than he had presumed when Mike abruptly asked, “Did you have fun at the party?” Blaine must’ve frowned because Mike laughed a second later. The other boy then twisted in his seat, getting comfortable, and stuck the key into the hole. “Yeah, me neither,” he admitted, “I get partied out easily, and to be honest… I actually have somewhere else I want to take you, if it’s okay? And don’t worry, I haven’t been drinking anything since The Memo-Zapper and after...” Mike’s nervous manner had Blaine smirk and glance over the twitchy fingers over the wheel.

“You’re the one who’s giving me a ride, dork. Take me wherever you please, o’ sober one.” Blaine replied, emphasizing the nickname loudly. Mike smiled at that and the car vibrated to life. The cool winds of April blew in the open car windows, its chill refreshing and airy that Mike let out a loud whoop along with the car’s lively vroom as they set off down the streets.

Mike’s destination was an abandoned building situated in between a small strip mall and an old church. After traveling miles of yellow wild grass fields, the car diverged from the highway onto a crumbly gravel road to park behind the decrepit structure. Mike appeared way too excited, which had Blaine curious. “This is it! Don’t let it creep you out. _Courage_ , Blaine.” Mike joked and escaped from the car before Blaine could smack him.

In retribution for Mike’s impertinent use of Blaine’s favorite phrase and his cowardly fleeing, Blaine refused to leave the safety of the vehicle until Mike opened his front passenger’s door for him. The latter did so effortlessly with a dramatic bow when Blaine stepped out. Now on the gravel road and regarding the oncoming darkness (plus the dubious wellbeing of their environment), Blaine was doubtful that this was the place Mike had in mind. The building appeared ominous, a covenant of exigency and peril, asserting that Blaine would end the night scarred and scathed. The few scraggly trees sticking out from the forest beyond the gravel lot seemed to be inching closer in vicious, predatory steps as the skies melted from light lavender to a rich royal purple.

“You come here for the ambiance?” Blaine remarked, watching as Mike scrunched up his nose, and another bout of laughter echoed in the empty gravel field, running through the golden fields along the night breezes.

“What if I say, ‘yes’? Come on, Blaine. You’ll see.” Mike was stepping backwards, approaching the deserted building while facing Blaine, his look a dare. A challenge. Blaine ignored the warning signs in his head, and followed suit because he wasn’t going to let Mike Chang get away with that smirk, and because the creeping trees were gaining ground on them. The other boy had rounded to the side of the building, pointing at a rusty fire escape ladder that connected the ground to a raised platform that led inside. Blaine was seriously doubtful at the ladder’s strength and its ability to carry weight, but nonetheless was currently fretting about the chain link fence that netted the outer region. A closed dumpster pressed against the side and Mike leaped onto the chain and climbed over, landing on the dumpster’s lid. He stood there boldly, inviting Blaine to join in his most likely illegal trespassing.

Succeeding their cross into foreign territory, Mike next went for the ladder. Jumping up and unlatching the ladder so that it reached to their waists, Mike’s hands gripped onto the highest rungs he could get to whilst his feet tested for support. Blaine was scared at the slight screech the metal made when the ladder was fully dropped but no more sounds were heard as they ascended that Blaine could pretend that it was all hunky-dory whereas he was three meter plus in the air and counting. Mike offered him a hand when they got onto the platform and soon they were on solid-ish ground once more. It was so narrow that Blaine couldn’t see anything clear of the back of Mike’s head and Blaine kept his hand on the metal railing at all times.

Walking behind Mike in clattering steps, Blaine was a tad breathless from exertion when he asked, “Is this why you’re so fit all the time? Climbing fences and investigating abandoned places like a Hardy boy?”

“You already know why, Blaine. Oh yeah, careful here, there’s a staircase when we get inside, watch your step.” Blaine hadn’t been paying attention to what Mike was saying and slammed into the boy’s back when Mike stopped. Blaine grumbled and held his injured nose whilst the other turned around and clicked his tongue in reprimand. Blaine glared but let it go when Mike pivoted to expose a large glass window. Crouching down, Mike felt at the window’s edges until his fingers brushed against something and Blaine heard a faint click. Following that, the window was slowly lifted, exposing a shadowed world.

“Step inside, quick, window’s heavy,” puffed out Mike sharply. Blaine noticed the straining arm muscles and ducked underneath the window. Blaine mumbled his thanks and rotated on the balls of his feet to carry the burden of the window so that Mike could pass through the opening—and god, it was heavy. Blaine was thankful that Mike was fast on his feet and let the window fall down onto its sill with a dusty bang. They coughed as particles shot up into the air like frightened birds.

The other side was eerily beautiful. Haunted remains of machinery and production lines were visible by a pallid stream of thin moonlight, which filtered in from someplace above them both, imbuing the insides of the building in a glowing blue-silver sheen. Their breathing was amplified that Blaine could hear his and Mike’s off-tempo exhales, his first (sharp, excited) and Mike’s subsequent (drawn, ready). Mike’s shadowed arm raised up to point towards the beacon overhead, and Blaine watched as the flecks of dust danced around Mike’s now light-blue arm.

“We’re heading up there,” Mike whispered as he dropped his arm. Blaine nodded and looked down accidentally, and steeled the sudden dizziness when he measured their height. “You okay?” Mike’s voice had Blaine snap out of it. If Mike was here then Blaine was going to be safe.

“Yeah, didn’t think we’d be up so high… but I’m looking forward to it!” Blaine replied, his curiosity getting a hold. It must have been the right thing to say as Mike grinned and lead Blaine off to the side. Without warning, Mike’s hands slid down and sat on Blaine’s waist, causing Blaine to flinch at the surprising motion, thinking that perhaps Mike was going to try something, but it turned out to be Mike’s maneuvering Blaine so that the shorter boy was in front of him. Blaine spotted the winding staircase ahead of him, barely illuminated that Blaine almost tripped if it hadn’t been for Mike’s support.

“Careful,” Mike warned, “it does have a railing on the side. See if you can reach it.” Blaine touched the cool and dusty metal of the railing and felt more secure as he went up in trembling, uncertain steps. Blaine kept quiet, scared that if he didn’t concentrate that he’d fall; Mike picked up the slack by talking and the boy’s encouraging tenor eased Blaine’s fears.

“I know this isn’t the safest place in the world but it’s totally worth it, especially tonight. Don’t worry, I got you.” Mike’s hands never left Blaine’s waist. Blaine smiled as they continued to ascend, his thoughts on the here and now, not about the distance below them, of the people and feelings that sunk near the bottom. At the moment Blaine was in high spirits, journeying upwards toward the starry sky and that was all that mattered to him.

When they got to the highest platform, Mike’s hands went to sneak around the wall, patting it down until he found a flap (helped by his cell phone’s backlight) of thick canvas fabric. Explaining that the warehouse was unfinished and that the cover was put into place to keep out bad weather, Mike yanked the flap off to the side and gestured for Blaine to go inside. Wanting to fulfill his curiosity already, Blaine shuffled inside and held up the cover in turn so that Mike could duck inside as well. Dusting off his hands on his pants, Blaine next turned and lost his breath. Mike started to walk ahead of Blaine and then turned around, arms wide open as he shouted, “What do you think!”

The night-lights were a perfect backdrop to Mike’s poised outline. Blaine could see the skyline of Lima, the ambient glow spreading from downtown, the bright dots of cars passing through gray highways, and the cloudless night sky plentiful with stars and a full, dazzling moon. The gravel from the unfinished rooftop balcony crunched beneath their feet, Blaine slowly walking to try to digest everything, Mike’s pace fast until the boy reached the fenced barrier. Carefully leaning on the barrier, Blaine kept his eyes up, up at the sky and the city in motion, up toward to observe the sheer look of joy that was commonplace on Mike Chang.

“This place is wonderful,” Blaine sighed out. It truly was. Blaine had always considered Lima as an average Midwestern town, with nothing too spectacular to regard, but Mike had shown him the beauty of the city. Blaine stared up at the glittery sky for a second time. It was so free and unpolluted. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” said Blaine, nudging Mike’s shoulders with his own.

“I’m glad you appreciate it but just wait, best part’s coming up.” Mike whispered as he then took Blaine’s arm and guided Blaine back a bit. They found a spot with no gravel to sit, using an unfinished brick chimney as their backrest while Mike checked his watch. Blaine kept on glancing around, speculating what was next until Mike hurriedly shook him with a loud shout, “Now! Look up!”

Blaine only saw it for a split-second but it was unmistakable: a white light zipped past the cobalt-blue background, chased by another and another until it resembled a school of illuminated flying fish traveling across dark waters. He couldn’t hold back the astonished gasp or the dawned exclaim, “Oh my god Mike—Mike! It’s—I,” Blaine’s hand clamped around his mouth before he was going to embarrass himself further.

“ _Asterismos_ , right?” Mike breathed, the other boy too was ecstatic as he strained his neck up higher, to try to see as many of the shooting stars that he could—Blaine felt something then. Something so indescribably powerful that it physically made him experience a pain so exquisite that he wouldn’t mind it repeating… but couldn’t act on anything as Mike said urgently, “Quick, quick! Blaine, make a wish!”

Blaine closed his eyes tight and wished as hard as he could.

_I wish that Mike Chang lives a full and happy life. He deserves everything good, stars. Please make it happen for him._

 

//

{ The coda.

The letter was thick in his hand and had a weight that could rival a rhinoceros. The mentioned weight was all in his head since the letter was standard letter mass, if not a bit over. Mike’s tongue licked a stripe over the top of his dry lip. Where was the letter opener... ah fuck it, Mike gulped and ripped the letter tidily; the strip hung like a branch from the top of the letter. Without wasting a breath Mike extracted its contents.

 

_Dear Mr. Chang, Jr.:_

_The Yale Admissions Committee has completed its evaluation of this year’s candidates, and I write with sincere regret_

 

Mike stopped reading there and shrugged. He drew a long vertical dash on the magnetic whiteboard on his fridge, under the column named “# of rejections”. One versus six wasn’t too bad. And he honestly didn’t care for Yale, so that was good. Harvard wasn’t his destination either that Mike hadn’t bothered. From what he asked of Blaine with the boy’s own transfer applications, it seemed Blaine had the same mindset. Maybe Blaine got into Yale. Mike hoped wherever Blaine wanted to go, that Blaine got in. The guy deserved that much.

A chat screen popped up whilst Mike was browsing through the Ivy League faculty websites. It was Blaine on CIM and Mike immediately minimized his previous window to see the boy’s message.

 

**asterismos:  are you busy?**

**me: Nope, why? Got some good news to share? ;)**

**asterismos: maybe. don’t wink at me, mike!**

**me: Fine, no winking… So, out with it.**

**asterismos: i got accepted into the university i wanted to go to!**

**me: Awesome! Blaine, I’m so happy for you!**

**me: You deserve it.**

**asterismos: thanks!**

**me: :D**

**asterismos: :)**

**me: :P**

**asterismos: :P so...**

**me: You want to ask me where I’ve been accepted.**

**asterismos: ugh, yes?? i’ve been dying to know, okay! don’t judge me!**

**me: 6 places.**

**asterismos: wow. i’m mad since i know you’re not lying. did you choose one out of them?**

**me: Yep! Where are you going?**

**asterismos: guess.**

**me: Princeton.**

**asterismos: nope. yale?**

**me: Got rejected. :P Harvard?**

**asterismos: they’re missing out. no, didn’t apply. apparently cooper left a bad taste in some professors’ mouths. figuratively and literally, he made out with one of them. long story, don’t ask. u-penn?**

**me: Your brother is a badass, man. Respect. No. Cornell?**

**asterismos: thanks but please don’t tell him that, he likes you. i don’t want him to love you, sweet lord, that would be terrible. i don’t want you two bonding over my inevitable demise. i’m tired of guessing, can we just?**

**me: On three.**

**asterismos: one.**

**me: Two.**

**me: Three!**

**asterismos: columbia!**

**me: Columbia!**

**asterismos: …**

**me: Woah.**

**asterismos: is this real life.**

**asterismos: how??**

**me: By being well-rounded in community, academics, and sports? Jeez, Blaine. I’m offended.**

**asterismos: you know what i mean. so did you win that poetry competition after all?**

**me: Nah, didn’t go for it. It wasn’t my thing. You know why I wrote those. :) Congrats on winning first place on the exposition writing one, I read your article on the website. It was really good. It’s going to be in The New York Times, that’s amazing!**

**asterismos: shush, you’re making me embarrassed. :)**

**asterismos: then how did you?**

**me: You know I do sports, right? When they saw that on my application, they had someone scout me... and Columbia offered me a spot. Why did you choose Columbia?**

**asterismos: that’s outstanding! you’re going to be in the ivy leagues now! watch out, i heard the competition is fierce.**

**asterismos: and about my choice, there’s someone in new york i want to see. my best friend, rachel. :) not to mention, it’s new york city!**

**me: Same. I have to admit, it’s going to be a great experience. Even if I have to tolerate you for the rest of year.**

**asterismos: don’t mention it, mike. i’m cringing in having to think about spending another lit class with you.**

**me: God, don’t jinx it, Blaine. If I have to hear another one of your winded speeches...**

**asterismos: hey! i resent that.**

**me: You resent a lot of things.**

**asterismos: you included.**

**me: Another year with you...**

**asterismos: what a nightmare.**

**me: Asshole.**

**asterismos: dick.**

**me: Your train of thought is amusing.**

**asterismos: oh my god, you know i didn’t mean it that way!**

**me: ;)**

**asterismos: stop winking!**

**me: ;))))**

**asterismos: ugh, i am not looking forward to junior year with you.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand that's a wrap! Thank you to everyone who's been reading the story and those who've just joined now, I hope you enjoyed the last part of Sophomores. 
> 
> Did you get the poet right? If not, I hope that it was a bit amusing! Your comments, bookmarks, and kudos have helped me greatly as feedback and if there is any critique about this last part or the whole fic, please let me know so that I may continue to get better and write more! 
> 
> Additionally, if people are interested in a _sequel_ to Sophomores, I do have some ideas? It will be Mike and Blaine's (mis)adventures at Columbia! Let me know if you'd like to read; I've got a bit planned and it will garner a higher rating on AO3. ;)
> 
> Lastly, I wanted to extend my gratitude again. Thank you so much for reading, guys!


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